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ST. CUTHBERT’S TOWER 


Lovell’s International Series 

OP 

MODERN NOVELS. 


No. 1. MISS EYON OF EYON COURT. By Katharine 
S. Macquoid. 30 Cents. * 

No. 2. IIARTAS MATURIN. By II. F. Lester. 60 Cents. 

No. 3. TALES OF TO-DAY. By George R. Sims, author 
of “ Mary Jane’s Memoirs.” 30 Cents. 

No. 4. ENGLISH LIFE SEEN THROUGH YANKEE 

EYES. By T. C. Crawford. 50 Cents. 

No. 5. PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. By Mrs. 

Bellamy, author of ” Old Man Gilbert.” 50 Cents. 
No. 6. UNDER F^VLSE PRETENCES. By Adeline 

Sergeant. 50 Cents. 

No. 7. IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. By Mary' 

Linskill. 30 Cents. 

No. 8. GUILDEROY. By Ouida. 30 Cents. 

No. 9. ST. CUTHBERT’S TOWER. By Florence 

Warden. ^ Cents. 

No. 10. ELIZABET.H MORLEY. By Katharine S. 

Macquoid. 30 Cents. 

No. 11. DIVORCE ; OR FAITHFUL AND UNFAITH- 
FUL. By Margaret Lee 50 Cents. 

No. 12. LONG ODDS. By Hawley Smart. 30 Cents. 

Other books by w'cll-known authors are in course of 
preparation, and will be published at regular intervals. 

*** The above published in cloth ; 'price per volume, $1.00. 

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY, 

143 AND 144 Worth Street, New York. 


St. Cuthbert’s Tower 


BY 


FLORENCE WARDEN 

The M 


Author of “The House on the Marsh,” “Scheherazade,” 
“ A Witch of the Hills,” Etc., Etc. 


/ . V’ * 


r 




\/ 


c£. Cl 



i C.CC'Ut^.O 

9 -' 


NEW YORK 

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY 

142 AND 144 Worth Street 


Copyright, 1889, 


BY 

JOHN W. LOVELL. 


ST. CUTHBEST’S TOWER. 


CHAPTER I. 

Rishton Hall Farm was let at last. Lord Stanning-toir had hail 
it on his hands a long* time, and had offered it at a lower and ever 
lower rent. It was an open secret that John Oldshaw, who had a 
lonff lease of Lower Rishton Farm at the other end of thevilisg-e, 
had expected the Rishton Hall lease to drop into his hands at last 
for a very trifling rent indeed. He was a careful man ; the property 
under his hands throve ; and he was fond of saying that his lordship 
would make a better bargain by letting him have the land at 
;(^10 an acre than by letting another man have it at How- 

ever, Lord Stannington had apparently thought otherwise ; at any 
rate,' when a stranger appeared upon the scene and offered him a fair 
rent for the land without any haggling, they came to terms without 
delay, and John Oldshaw found that his hoped-for bargain had es- 
caped him. 

This West Riding farmer was not a nice person to deal with when 
he was disangointed. He drove over to Sheffield to the agent’s office, 
and stampea into that gentleman's presence, his square, heavy face 
purple with ill-suppressed rage. 

“ Na then, Maister Garrett, be pleased to tell mah if yender’s true 
as Ah hear, that Rishton Hall Farm’s let to a stranger ?’’ he bellowed, 
thumping the table with his broad fist, and glaring at the agent Avith 
the unreasoning fierceness of an angry bull. 

Mr. Garrett was a slight, fair man of uncertain age, whose 
light eyes were accustom^, by long practice, to read men pretty 
accurately. 

“ Quite true, Mr. Oldshaw,” he answered, civilly, with imperturb- 
able coolness. “It was let a fortnight ago; and the new tenant 
comes in — let me see — ” referring to his papers — “ on the 16th ; this 
day week in fact.” 

“ And dost tha’ knaw, Maister Garrett, that Ah’re had ma mahnd 
set on Rishton Hall Farm for this twelvemonth and mair ?” 


4 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ How could we know it, Mr. Oldshaw, since the farm’s been in 
the market more than twice that time, and we have never had any 
intimation from you of a wish for it ?” 

“ We Yarkshiremen doan’t do things in a hurry. But every mon 
in t’ village knawed Ali’d set ma heeart on t’ farm, and noo Ah’m to 
be t’ laugAin’-stock o’ a’ t’ feeals i’ t’ coontry, and Eishton Farm let 
ower ma yead to a stranger as nawbody’s ever heeard on !” 

And the farmer gave an apoplectic snort of malignant anger. 

“ Oh, but that is not the case, Mr. Oldshaw,” said the a^ent as 
quietly as ever ; “Mr. Denison, the gentleman who has taken the 
farm, is a friend of friends of his lordship, and in every way a ten- 
ant of the most desirable kind, ” 

John Oldshaw calmed down suddenly, and into his small, blood- 
shot blue eyes there came a satisfied twinkle. 

“A gentleman, ye say. A gentleman’s got the farm!” in a tone 
of the deepest contempt. “ Thank ye, Mai ster Garrett, Ah’m quite 
satisfied. It’s not for me to grumble at his lordship, then. Ah can 
pity him. The’ never was t’ gentleman barn could do any good at 
farming, and if a gentleman barn’s got Eishton Hall Farm, all t’ ill 
I wish his lordship is— may t’ gentleman barn stick to’s bargain.” 

Ai\d with these words, uttered in a tone of fierce triumph, the 
farmer, who had not removed his hat on entering the office, turned 
and stalked out with every appearance of enjoying, as he had inti- 
mated, a complete revenge. 

The village of Eishton boasted two inns, both of the most unpre- 
tending kind. The larger and more important of these was the 
Chequers, a stone building of the simplest kind of architecture, to 
whicn were attached numerous small outbuildings, forming three 
sides of a quadrangle for Mr. Tew’s gig and Mrs. Tew’s hens. The 
Chequers stood just outside the gate of Eishton Hall Farm, and its 
windows commanded the approach from Matherham, the nearest 
market town, which was three miles away. On the 16th of January, 
the day of the expected arriyal of the new tenant of Eishton Hall, 
John Oldshaw took up his stand at one of the inn windows, watching 
with maleyolent eyes for the approach of his rival. It was a bitterly 
cold day, grey overhead and black under foot ; and the frost, which 
had held for three days, was growing harder as the afternoon wore 
on. John Oldshaw, with a sense of keen disappointment, had at 
last to acquiesce in the general belief that the new tenant would not 
come to-day. 

“ If he’s coom as far as Matherham he’ll stop there t’ night, Maister 
Oldshaw,” said Tew, the landlord, a small man, ruled by his wife. 
“ T’ ground’s too slaippery for e’er a horse to stand on, lettin’ alone 
t’ road’s all hill and dale ’tween this and Matherham. Besides, t’ 
awd house is as bare as a barb ; he’d never coom till he’d sent some 
stutrto put in it, and a coople o’ servants to set it to rights a bit. ” 

“Well, it ain’t ma way o’ doin’ things, to neame wan day for 
coomin’ and then to coom another,” said Oldshaw, contemptuoiusly. 
“But, then, Ah’m naw gentleman, and my lord Stannington ’ll 
mighty soon wish as he could say same o’ t’ new tenant, Maister 
Tew.” 

Mr. Tew could not afford to have an independent opinion in the 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


5 


presence of the great man of the village, with that miserable Cock 
and Bottle, not five hundred yards away, gaping for first place as 
the hostelry of the elite. 

“ It’s ta mooch to expect to get another tenant like you, Maister 
Oldshaw,” he said, discreetly. 

It was this time nearly four o’clock, and the gresr day was al- 
ready beginning to darken towards a black evening when Mat Old- 
shaw, the farmer’s oldest son, who had b.'on sent by his father to the 
top of the hill on the look-out, re-entered the inn at a pace somewhat 
faster than his usual shambling gait. He was a tall, round-shoul- 
dered lad of about twenty, with fair hair and a weather-tanned face, 
wfiiose heavy dulness was for the moment lightened by a passing 
gleam of great excitement. 

“ Weel, Mat, hast seean a ghoost?” asked his father. 

“Naw, feyther ; but there’s a cab coomin’ down t’ hill ” 

“So Maister Gentleman’s coom, has he?” shouted the farmer, 
triumphantly ; and he had seized his stout ash stick, and was 
making with ponderous strides for the door, as if with the intention 
of inflicting bodily chastisement on the insolent new comer, when 
his son interposed, blushing a deep brick -red to the roots of his hair. 

“Eh, but feyther,” he stammered, turning the door handle un- 
easily, and dividing his glances between the floor, the window, and 
his father’s boorish face, “ it’s na t’ gentleman ; it’s nobbut twea 
lasses.” 

After which admission, he fell to blushing more violently than be- 
fore. 

“ Twea lasses?” echoed Oldshaw, incredulously. 

“ Hey, feyther. An’ wan o’ them’s got a feace lik’ a rose.” 

“Feace lik’ a rose?” thundered the farmer. “Doan’t thee daze 
tha dull wits lookin’ at wenches’ faces, for Ah tell tha Ah’ll have na 
son o’ mine hangin’ aboot t’ Hall noo.” 

“ She bain’t na lass for t’ likes o’ mea, feyther ; yon lass is a leady,” 
said the lad, simply. 

If the stranger’s fair face had not, as his father suggested, dazed 
his dull wits already, the young man would surely have had the tact 
to restrain these rash words, which fanned the flame of his father’s 
coarse malevolence. 

“ A leady ! A foine leady ! ta foine for any son o’ mine ? Ah tell 
thee, feeal, t’ day’ll coom when tha foine leady’ll wish she wur good 
enoo for t’ loikes o’ thee ; and good enoo she shall never be— tha 


heears ?” 

Though the young man’s head was bent in a listening attitude, 
and he assented in the meekest of ^ruff voices, the father guessed 
that this deep attention was not all for his discourse, when the sound 
of hoofs and wheels on the hard ground outside attracted him to the 
outer door, which he reached in time to see a luggage-laden cab 
slowly descend the hill and pass the inn-door, giving time for a look 
at the two young faces inside. Mistress and maid evidently ; both 
bright, eager, and rather anxious. The former met full the surlv 
stare of the farmer, and she drew back her head as if a blast of chil- 
ling wind had met her on her approach to her new home. The little 
maid, who had rosy cheeks and what one may call retrousse features. 


6 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


was less sensitive, and she looked out to resent this cold unwelcome 
with a contemptuous toss of the head. 

“ They’re reg’’lar savages in these parts, Miss Olivia,” she said, in a 
slightly raised tone. “ I only hope we may be uneaten by the time 
the master comes !” 

The cab had passed the front of the inn, and was rounding the 
sharp turn which led up a slight ascent through the open farmyard 
gate, when suddenly, without any warning except a few rough jolts 
over the uneven ground, it turned over on its side, to the accompani- 
merit of shrill screams from one female throat, and a less loud but 
more plaintive cry from the other. Mat Oldshaw, who was standing 
on the inn doorstep behind his father, made a spring forward to help 
them. But the elder man, with a movement quicker than one would 
have expected from his clumsy form and ponderous gait, grasped his 
arm with a violence which made the lad reel, and giving him a 
push back against the wall of the house, said, in a low, thick 
voice— 

“Doan’t thoo meddle with what darn’t concern thee. Wheer 
there’s so mooch cry, there ain’t mooch hurt, tak’ ma word 
for’t.” 

“Feyther!” said Mat, indignantly, entreatingly. Then he was 
dumb, for even through his not over-bright brains came a suspicion 
that this accident was perhaps not wholly unexpected by one of its 
witnesses 

As this brief scene passed between father and son, a man in a short 
frieze coat, knickerbockers, gaiters, and deer-stalker cap, who had 
quickened bis pace down the hill into a run on seeing the accident, 
looked full into the faces of both men with a keen, shrewd expression 
as he dashed by. 

“ It’s parson Brander, o’ S’ Cuthbert’s, feyther. He heeard thee,” 
said the young man in a husky, awed whisper. 

“ An’ wha not? Ah’d loike to see sik as him say a word to me !” 
said the farmer, in a loud voice of boastful contempt. 

And the attitudes respectively of father and son, the one of con- 
temptuous disgust, the other of awestruck respect, represented the 
two views most commonly taken in the country side of the Reverend 
Vernon Brander, vicar of Saint Cuthbert’s. 

Before the last disdainful word was out of John Oldshaw’s mouth, 
the new comer had opened the cab door, and extricated the two girls 
from their unpleasant position. The maid was uppermost, but she 
was a little creature, and had probably inflicted far less inconvenience 
on her more massively built mistre.ss than that young lady would 
have inflicted on her had their positions been reversal. Her rosy 
cheeks had lost their color, and from her forehead, which had 'been 
cut by the broken glass of the carriage window, blood was trickling 
down. 

In answer to the gentleman's inquiries as to whether she was hurt, 
she said in a trembling voice that she didn’t know yet, and begged 
him to get her mistress out. This he at once proceeded to do, and 
was rewarded by the thanks of a young lady whom he at once decided 
to be one of the handsomest girls that this or any other country ever 
produced. 


8f. CtJTHBERT’S . 


7 


Olivia Denison was indeed an unchallenged beauty, and had 
occupied that proud position almost ever since, twenty years ago, 
she had been pronounced to be “a lovely baby.” She was tall— of 
that cruel height which forces short admirers, on pain of looking 
ridiculous, to keep their distance ; of figure rather massive than 
slender, with a fair skin, a fresh color, dark hair, blue eyes, and a 
winning expression of energy and honesty which gave to the whole 
face its greatest charm. For the moment, however, the rose color 
had left her cheeks, too, and her lips were drawn tightly together. 

“ You are hurt, I am afraid,” said the strang-er, with concern. 

“ I’ve onlv— pinched — my finger,” she answered, trying to laugh. 

But the effort of peaking brought the tears to her eyes, much to 
her indignation. For she was brave, and she liked to have the 
credit of it. 

“ Let me see,” said he, with kindly authority. 

She presented her right hand, from which he drew the glove very 
gently, disclosing bruised and slightly discolored finger tips. 

“ They do hurt a little, but it’s nothing very dreadful. I don’t 
know how I did it,” she said. 

“ Lucky it’s no worse,” said the stranger, kindly. “ Now for the 
lad.” 

The young driver was looking ruefully at the overturned vehicle. 
He proved to have escaped witn no worse damage than a battered 
hat. Lucy, the maid, who had ascertained that her head was still 
on her shoulders, had bound up her cut forehead with her handker- 
chief, and was scolding the driver for his carelessness as she pointed 
to the scattered luggage. The traces having broken as the cab fell, 
the horse had sustained very little hurt, so that, on the whole, the 
accident had been without tragic consequences. The rescuer took 
hold of the girl, and shook her by the arm. 

“Now, don’t you think, considering all things, you might find 
some better use for your tongue than scolding. You might have 
been upset a mile away on the road, instead of which you are turned 
out comfortably at your own door. For, I suppose, you are coming 
to the Hall?” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Lucy, abashed, but still rather mutinous, 
not having the least idea that she was speaking to a clergyman. 

“So that the real sulferer by this spill is neither you nor your 
mistress, but the poor lad who has driven you safely more than three 
miles over a very dangerously slippery road, and" who will perhaps 
get discharged by his master for having injured the cab. Your 
mistress does not scold you for half an hour if you break a plate.” 

“Yes she does, sir,” fired up Lucy, so unexpectedly that Mi. 
Brander involuntarily glanced with surprise at the young lady. 
“Oh, not Miss Olivia,” added the little maid almost indignantly ; 
“ it’s Mrs. Denison I mean.” 

“ Well, then, if you find the habit so unamiable in Mrs. Denison, 
as I see you do, you should take the greatest care not to fall into it 
yourself,” said the vicar, suppressing a smile. 

Then he turned again to the lady. 

“Is everything ready for your coming?” he asked, doubtfully. 

For he had passed the house that morning, and found it deserted, 
mildewed, and shuttered-up as usual. 


8 


St*, cxjthbert’s tower. 


“No, nothing*,” said the girl. “We’ve come on in advance to 
prepare things for papa and mamma and the rest,” she added rather 
tremulously. 

The frightful immensity of the undertaking perhaps struck her 
now for the first time, as she stood, still shaking from the shock of 
the accident, staring at the smokeless chimneys and shuttered win- 
dows of the new home. Mr. Brander looked from one girl to the 
other, very sorry for both, wondering what kind of idiots the parents 
could be to send two inexperienced young lasses to grapple with all 
the difficulties of installation. 

“ And the furniture ? I suppose that has come?” he suggested, 
dubiously. 

“ Oh, I hope so,” said the girl, anxiously. 

“I’ll ask at the inn here. If it has come they will have seen it 
pass. And Mrs. Tew will give you both a cup of tea. You don’t 
mind going into an inn, do you? It’s a very respectable place.” 

“ Oh, no ; of course we don’t,” said Miss Denison. “ Indeed, it is 
very, very kind of you to take so much trouble for us.” 

“Trouble! Nonsense. It’s a splendid excitement. As far as I 
am concerned, I should like a pair of travellers overturned here once 
a week.” 

He beckoned to Lucy, and led them the few steps back to the inn 
door. John Oldshaw was still standing in a defiant attitude on the 
doorstep, whence he had watched the proceedings with malicious in- 
terest. His son was still peeping out, sheepish and ashamed, from 
behind him. 

“Here, Mat, will you run round to Mrs. Wall’s— tell her that Miss 
Denison has come, and ask for the key of the Hall ?” said he. “ And 
then you might lend me a hand to take some of the lady’s trunks 
into the house.” 

Mat’s face brightened and flushed. 

“ All right, sir,” he said, and tried to push past his father. 

But the elder man blocked the doorway with his arms, and stood 
like a rock. 

“Nay,” he said, obstinately ; “Mat doesna’ stir at tha’ bidding. 
Help the wenches thasel’ ; thoo’s used tg|ft.” 

Olivia drew back ; she was shockecpfri^-htened, by the dogged 
ferocity of the farmer’s face and hw th^^i^^ expression of some 
strong feelings— whether ai^er or‘angtHshW#could not quite tell— 
which for a moment convulsed the features of her unknown 
panion. As for Oldshaw’s coarse words, t^ stiyijjg* Yorkshire di^i^ct 
rendered them unintelligible to her. T4ey,Tpvever, roused the 
spirit of the phlegmatic Mat. 

“For shame, feyther 1” cried he, in a voice which was a new ter- 
ror for the young lady whose champion he thus declared himself to. 
be. “ Maister Brander, Ah’ll go loike a reace hbrse.” 

And ducking his long body under his father’s left arm with an un- 
ceremonious roughness which shook that mig^ity man from his 
dignity, he touched his cap to Olivia with oafish respect, and ran off 
down the lane past the Hall barns with the best speea of his long legs. 

“ We won’t go in there, thank you very much,” said Olivia, when 
Mr. Brander had come back to the spot to which she had retreated. 
“ I could not pass that man ; I would rather not go near him.” 


sf. cuthbert’s tower. 


9 


“ Will you wait here while I find out about the furniture, then ?” 

Please promise not to quarrel with that horrid man about his 
rudeness to us. I can see he is one of those people who can’t help 
bein^ rude and horrid, just as some other people can’t help being* 
unselfish and kind,” said the g“irl, shyly, but with much warmth. 
“ Will you please promise?” 

“Yes,” said he, simply, looking* into her face with a grave, 
straightforward expression of interest and, as it seemed to her, of 
gratitude which surprised and touched her. 

Then he turned without another word, almost as if afraid to say 
another word, and going back rapidly to the inn, passed the farmer, 
who sullenly made way for him, and disappeared into the house. 
When he came back, his face was full of deep concern of a difterent 
kind. 

“ I bring bad news,” he said to the girls, who, mistress and maid, 
were shrinking together in their desolation. “I am afraid jmur 
furniture has not come, and— they say they haven’t a room to .spare 
in the inn for to-night. But if Mrs. IW could see you and speak to 
you herself ” 

“ I wouldn’t stay in the house,” burst out Olivia, indignantly. 
“ If we can only get into the Hall, Lucy and I can manage very 
well indeed.” 

“But the place is sure to be hideously damp, and there are no 
carpets ; in fact, there’s nothing,” said Mr. Brander, in dismay. 

“ The resources of the feminine mind are infinite,” said Olivia, 
who was again blinking behind her veil. “Here comes the old 
woman who has the keys, I suppose. I shall get her to take us in 
for a little while— at least, she’ll have a cottage and a tire some- 
where or other. And perhaps while we are waiting there the furni- 
ture will come.” 

Mr. Brander looked at her with renewed compassion. He thought 
this last a forlorn hope. 

“ Don’t be disappointed if it doesn’t come yet,” he said, encourag- 
ingly. “ Old Sarah Wall will do her best for you, I’m sure, and all 
the better if she doesn’t see me talking to you. For you won’t hear 
any good of me from her.” 

And before Olivia could detain him to pour out again the thanks 
for his kindness with which her heart was overflowing, he had raised 
his hat with a sudden cold withdrawal into himself, and turning with 
the rapidity of the most accomplished athlete, disappeared along the 
road which led through Lower Eishton, leaving her overwhmmed 
with surprise at the abrupt change in his manner and with desola- 
tion at this unexpectedly sudden loss of their only friend. 


CHAPTER n. 

Old Sarah Wall, the key -bearer, who now came ambling up at a 
very slow pace, holding her hand to her side, and muttering feebly 
as she moved, was a poor exchange, Olivia thought, for the mascu- 
line friend who had ended his kindly services so abruptly. He had 


O 


St. CtJTHBERt’S TOWER. 


K) 

not even waited, as he had intimated an intention of doing, to see the 
luggage safely moved into the house. Mrs. Wall looked very cross 
and not too clean. Scarcely deigning to glance at the strangers, 
she muttered, “ This way !” and then fell to groaning as she led the 
way through the farmyard up to the house. 

Olivia paused to look despairingly at her scattered trunks, and to 
give a kindly word of comfort to the unlucky cab driver, who was 
still occupied in estimating the damage done to his vehicle, and his 
chances of getting it back to Matherham that night. As she did so 
she heard a footstep on the hard ground beside her, and found the 
shamefaced and blushing Mat at her side. 

“ Ah’ll get t’ luggage in seefe, never fear,” said he, in a voice so 
gruff with excessive bashfulness that poor Olivia thought him 
surly, and shrank back with a cold refusal of his services rising to 
her lips. 

Mat thought she identified him with his father and so hastened to* 
offer a neat apology for that gentleman’s conduct. 

“ Feyther’s a pig,” said he. “ Boot he wunna harm ye ! an’ Ah’ll 
do what Ah can to mak’ oop for him being so rough.” 

And he shouldered one trunk and cau^t up another, and strode 
along towards the house, whistling to himself with the defiant care- 
lessness of one who feels he has done a bold stroke. The lady and 
her attendant followed, somewhat soothed by this little show of friend- 
liness. 

Even in the midst of her feelings of desolation and disappointment, 
in spite of the keen cold and of the forlorn, blind look which shuttered 
and shut-up windows, broken chimney pots, and untrimmed ivy 
gave to the nouse, Olivia could not look quite without admiration 
and a youthful sense of delight in the picturesque at the old Hall. 
The body of the house was a long, plain, two-storeyed building, with 
a flagged roof and a curious wide, flat portico, supported by two 
spindleshank wooden windows, beneath which three stone steps, 
deeply hollowed out and worn by generations of feet, led to the front 
door. At the west end a gabled wing, flag-roofed like the rest, 
ran back from the body of the house ; and at right angles to this 
there jutted out westwards a second small wing of the same shape. 
In these, the oldest portions of the house, traces of former architec- 
tural beauties remained in statel;5r Tudor chimneys and two mul- 
lioned windows, round which the ivy clustered in huge bushes, long 
left neglected and untrimmed. At this end of the building a little 
garden ran underneath the walls, protected from the incursions of 
intrusive cows b^ a wall which began towards the back of the house 
^ being very high and ended towards the front by being very low. 
From the wall to the house the garden had been shut in by palings 
and a little gate ; but these were now much broken and decayed, 
and afforded small protection to the yews and holly bushes, the little 
leafless barberry tree and the shabby straggling evergreens, which 
grew thickly against the weather-stained walls of the old house, 
choking the broken panes of the lower windows as the ivv did those 
of the upper ones. It was this western end that was visible from the 
road, the view of the front being obscured by a long stone-built 
barn, very old, and erected on foundations older still, about which 
hung traditions of monkish days. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


11 


Ji she had seen it at any other time^ Olivia would have been crazy 
with delight at the thought of living in such a place ; and even now, 
cheerless as the immediate prospect was, it gave her a gleam of com- 
fort to reflect that, if she did have to pass the night without any bed 
amongst the rats, the ancestors of those rats had scampered over the 
place in the time of Queen Elizabeth. 

With some difficulty, Mrs. Wall turned the key in the rusty lock 
and admitted them. It seemed, that she had a grievance in the fact 
that she had not known on what day they were to arrive. As a 
matter of fact, she was one of those persons who are never prepared 
for anything, but Olivia had had no means of learning her peculiar- 
ities, and so she met the old woman’s complaints in a humble and 
apologetic spirit which increased Mrs. Wall’s arrogance. 

The entrance hall was low-roofed and square ; the walls were 
covered with a cheap and commonplace paper, the wainscoting and 
the banisters of the broad staircase were of painted wood. This 
was the portion of the house which had sufferea most during its de- 
cadence. Olivia, examining everything with an eye keen to dis- 
cover the good points to be made the most of in her new home, found 
that where the. paint had worn oifthe staircase and wainscot dark oak 
was revealed underneath, and she rashly uttered an exclamation of 
horror at the vandalism of the farm’s late occupants. 

“ The idea of spoiling beautiful dark oak with this horrid paint! 
Wlw, the people who aid it ought to be sent to penal servitude!” 

Mrs. Wall was scandalized. 

“ T’ fowk ’as lived here last’liked t’ place clean,” she said, severely. 
“ It’ll niwer look t’ same a^ain as it did, wi’ a clean white antima- 
cassar stitched on to ivery cheer, an’ wax flowers imder glass sheades 
in a’ t’ parlor windows. An’ t’ parlor a’ways as neat as a new pin, 
so ye wur afreaid a’most to coom into ’t. Ah, ye meen talk o’ yer 
gentlefowk, but they’ll niwer mak’ it look t’ same again!” 

Olivia had opened the door to the right, and throwing wide the 
shutters of one of the three large windows, revealed a long, low-ceil- 
inged room, used as the living room by the late farmer’s family, and 
having at the further end a wide, high, old-fashioned fireplace, the 
moulffings of which had been carefully covered with whitewash, 
now smoked-begrimed and worn into dark streaks. The shutters 
and the wainscoting, which in this room was breast high upon the 
walls, had been treated in the same way. Olivia uttered a groan, 
and turned to the door, afraid of uttering more offensive remarks. 
Then they went upstairs, and opened the doors of a lot of little 
meanly papered bedrooms which formed the upper storey of this part 
of the house. Having allowed the new-comers to examine these, 
while she remained sniffing in the passage, Mrs. Wall shuffled hastily 
back to the staircase. 

“Stop!” cried Olivia, as the old woman placed one downtrodden 
shoe on the second step; “we haven’t seen the other part of the 
house at all. Where does this lead to ?” 

And she peered into a crooked passage which led into the first of 
the two older wings. 

Mrs. Wall paused with evident reluctance. 

“ There’s nowt yonder but t’ worst o’ t’ bedrooms ; ye’ve seen t’ 
best,” she grumbled. 


12 


ST. CUTHBJflRT’S TOWER. 


But Olivia was already exploring*, followed by Lucy ; and the old 
woman, with much reluctance, brought up the rear. The passage 
was quite dark, and very cold. The tallow dip which Mrs. Wall 
carried gave only just enough light to enable the explorers to find 
the handles of the doors on the left. One of these Olivia opened, not 
without difficulty ; for the floor was strewn with lumber of all sorts, 
which the last occupier of the farm had not thought worth carrying 
away. The walls of this room, which was very small, were panelled 
right up to the low ceiling ; and the panelling had been whitewashed. 
A second chamber in this passage was in a similar condition, except 
that the panelling had been torn down from two of the four walls, 
and its place sup^ied by a layer of plaster. Holding up her skirts 
very carefully, Olivia stepped across the dusty piles of broken boxes, 
damaged fireirons, and odds and ends of torn carpet with which the 
floor of this room also was covered, and looked through the dusty 
panes of the little window. 

“ Now you’ve seen a’,” said Mrs. Wall, rather querulously. ‘‘ An’ 
t’ lad downstairs ’ll be wanting to know wheer to put t’ things.” 

She was retreating with her candle, when Olivia stopped her again. 

“ No,” she said, eagerly, “ we’ve not seen all. There’s a wing of 
the houge we have not been into at all ; and I can see through the 
little window, on this side of it, some curtains and a flower vase with 
something still in it. It doesn’t look empty and deserted like the 
rest. I must get in there before I go down.” 

But Mrs. Wall’s old face had wrinkled up with superstitious terror, 
and it was only by force of muscle that the young girl succeeded in 
cutting olf her retreat. 

“Na’,” she said, her voice sinking to a croaking whisper. “I 
canna tak’ ye in theer. An’ — an’ t’ doors are lock^, ye see,” she 
added, eagerly, as Olivia, still grasping her conductress’ arm, in 
vain tried the door at the end of the passage, and one on the left-hand 
side, at right angles with it. 

“Well, but why are they locked?” asked the young girl, im- 
patiently, her rich-toned, youthful voice ringing sonorously through 
the long-disused passage. “The whole place is ours now, and I 
have a right to see into every corner of it.” 

“Oh, Miss Olivia, perhaps we’d better go back— go downstairs— 
for to-day,” suggested the little maid Lucy, rather timorously be- 
hind her. 

Mrs. Wall’s nervous tremors were beginning to infect the poor 
girl, who was, moreover, very cold, and was longing for some tea. 
But her young mistress nad at least her fair share of an immovable 
British obstinacy. Finding that both doors were firmly locked and 
that there was no key to either forthcoming, she flung the whole 
weight of her massive and muscular young body against the door on 
the left, until the old wood cracked and the rusty nails rattled in the 
disused hinges. 

“ Mercy on us !” exclaimed Sarah Wall, petrified by the audacity 
of the young amazon. “ Shoo ’ll have t’ owd place aboot our ears f” 

“Take the candle, Lucy,” said Olivia, imperiously, perceiving 
that the dip was flaring and wobbling in an ominous manner in the 
old woman’s trembling fingers. 


ST. CUTHBERT’S TOWER. 


13 


Lucy obeyed, frightened but curious. Her mistress made two 
more vigorous onslaughts upon the door ; the first produced a great 
creaking and straining ; at the second the door gave way on its 
upper hinge, so that the girl’s strong hands were able to force the 
lock with ease. She turned to the guide in some triumph. 

“Now, Mrs. Wall, we’ll unearth your ghost, if there is one. At 
any rate, we’ll get to the bottom of your mystery in five minutes.” 

Lut she did not. Pressing on to the end of a very narrow, un- 
lighted passage in which she now found herself, Olivia came to a 
second door ; this opened easily and admitted her into a large cham- 
ber, the aspect of which, dimly seen by the fading light which came 
throug'h a small square window on her left, filled her brave young 
spirit with a sudden sense of dreariness and desolation. 

For it was not empty and lumber-strewn, like the rest of the rooms 
she had entered. The" dark forms of cumbrous, old-fashioned furni- 
ture were discernible in the dusk ; the heavy hangings of a huge 
four-post mahogany bedstead shook, as a rat, disturbed by the un- 
wonted intrusion, slid down the curtain and scurried across the floor. 
As she stepped slowly forward on the carpet, which was damp to the 
tread, and peered to the right and left in the gloom, Olivia could see 
strange relics of the room’s last occupant ; the withered remains of 
what had been a bunch of flowers on a table in front of the little 
window ; an assortment of Christmas cards and valentines, all of 
design now out of date, and all thickly covered with brown dust, 
fastened with pins on to the wall on each side of the high mantle- 

E iece ; even a book, a railway novel, with its yellow boards gnawed 
y the rats, which she picked up rather timorously from the floor, 
where, by this time, it seemed to have acquired a consecrated right 
to lie. 

Still advancing very slowly, Olivia reached the opposite side of 
the room, where her quick eyes had perceived the barred shutters of 
a second and much larger window. With some difficulty she re- 
moved the bar, which had grown stiff and rusty, and, drawing back 
the heavy shutters, revealed the long, stone-mullioned window, 
with diamond panes, which had been such a picturesque feature of 
the house from the outside. The thick, untrained ivy obscured one 
end of it, but enough light glimmered through the dirt-encrusted 
panes for Olivia to be now quite sure of two things of which she felt 
nearly sure before— namely, that this was the best bedroom in the 
house, and that, for some mysterious reason, this chamber, instead 
of being dismantled like the rest, had been allowed to remain for a 
period of years almost as its last occupant had left it. Almost, but 
not quite ; for the bedding had been removed, the covers to the 
dressing table and the gigantic chest of drawers, and the white cur- 
tains which had once hung before the shuttered window. 

On the other hand, a host of knicknacks remained to testify to the 
sex, the approximate age, and the measure of refinement of the late 
owner. More railway novels, all well worn ; flower v^ses of an in- 
expensive kind ; two hand mirrors, one broken ; a dream book ; a 
bow of bright ribbon ; a handsome cut-glass scent bottle ; th^e 
things, among others, were as sugg'estive as a photograph ; while 
the fact that this room alone had been studiously left in its original 


14 


ST. CUTllliEET'S TOWER. 


state, and even furnished in accordance with it, threw a new and 
more favorable light on the taste of that mysteriously interesting 
somebody whose individuality made itself felt across a lapse of years 
to the wondering new-comer. 

Olivia Denison was not by any means a fanciful girl. She had 
been brought up by a stepmother— a mode of education little likely 
to produce an unwholesome forcing of the sentimental tendencies. 
She was besides too athletic and vigorously healthy to be prone to 
superstitious or morbid imaginings. But as she stood straining her 
eyes in the fading daylight to take in every detail of the mysterious 
room, the panelling, which in this apartment alone was left its own 
dark color, seemed to take strange moving patterns as she looked ; 
the musty, close air seemed to choke her ; and faint creakings and 
moanings, either in the ancient woodwork or the loose-hanging ivy 
outside, grew in her listening ears to a murmur as of a voice trying 
to speak, and miserably failing to make itself understood. She was 
roused by a shrill cry, and found Lucy, whose fear for her mistress 
had overcome her fear of this desolate room, shaking her by the 
arm and pulling her towards the door. 

“ Oh, Miss Olivia, do come out— do come out ! You’re going to 
faint ; I’m sure vou are. It’s all this horrid room — this horrid house. 
Oh, do come and write, and tell master it’s not a fit place for Chris- 
tians to come to, and he’d never prosper if he was to come here, and 
nor wouldn’t none of us, I’m positive. Do come, Miss Olivia, there’s 
a dear. It’s fit to choke one in here, what with the rats and the 
damp, that it is. And if we was to stay here long enough we’d see 
ghosts, I know.” 

Olivia laughed. No phantom had terrors for her, however strong 
an impression half -guessed realities might make upon her youthful 
imagination. 

“Don’t be afraid, Lucy,” she said, encouragingljr. “We’ll soon 
frighten the ghosts away by letting a little fresh ^r into these musty 
rooms. Here, help me.” 

Half reassured by her resonant voice, the maid accompanied her 
to the larger window, still clinging to her arm, but more for com- 
panionship than with the idea of affording support to her mistress, 
who had recovered her self-command. Together they succeeded in 
throwing open both windows to their full extent, not, however, ac- 
complishing this without a shriek from Lucy as a great bird flew 
out of the hanging ivy and almost flapped against their faces in his 
confusion at this unusual disturbance. T&y both felt a sense of 
relief as the keen but fresh outside air blew into the long-closed 
room, dispersing the mouldy, musty smell of damp hangings and 
decaying wood. Even the old woman, who had stood all this time 
in the doorway, apparently engaged in muttering incantations over 
her tallow dip, but really transfixed by this audacity of young blood, 
drew a long breath as the rush of fresh air reached her, and gathered 
courage to ask “ what they were after doin’ now?” 

“Were ‘after’ ransacking every corner of this old ghost run, 
turning it upside down and inside out, and chasing away the last 
shadow of a bogey,” answered Olivia, cheerily. “Here’s another 
room to look into.” 


8T. cuthbert’s tower. 


15 


Crossing* the room with a light st^, she opened the door of the 
second of the closed-up apartments. This chamber also had escaped 
the dismantling of the rest of the house, but it contained very little 
that would have been worth taking awav. It was lighted by three 
small windows, all much broken, and all hung with limp rags which 
had once been muslin curtains, gaily tied up with blue ribbons, 
which were now almost colorless with dust and damp. The floor Avas 
covered with matting, which smelt like damp straw, and had evi- 
dently afforded many a meal to the rats now scurrying behind the 
woodwork, which in this room was much decayed ana in far from 
good repair. A plain deal table, from which the cover had been re- 
moved ; two limp wicker chairs with ragged cushions ; an empty 
birdcage ; a fanciful wicker kennel for a la^og ; these were nearlv 
all that were left of the furniture. Olivia inspected eveiwthing with 
eager but silent interest, and then turned suddenly to Sarah Wall, 
who had again followed them as far as the door, preferring even the 
eerie passage of the bedroom to solitude outside. 

“ Who lived in these rooms last ?” she asked. 

But the candle nearly fell from Mrs. Wall’s hand as, for all answer, 
she withdrew into the desolation of the deserted bedroom rather than 
face the eager questioner again. 

Olivia was not to be put off so easily. She followed precipitately, 
and, changing the form of her attack, said— 

“ How long is it since these rooms were shut up, IVIrs. Wall ?” 

The guide’s eyes shifted about, refusing to meet those of the young 
girl. 

“ Twea year*; same as rest o’ t’ house,” she answered, in a grumbl- 
ing tone. 

“ Only two years! It wasn’t shut up long before the family went 
away, then?” said Olivia, incredulously. 

“ Not as Ah knaws on,” answer Sarah Wall. 

Miss Denison hated an untruth with the impetuous loathing of an 
honest nature. She would have liked to shake this wretched old 
woman, who would not be candid on a subject which could not be of 
the slightest importance to her. Perhaps her companion got an 
inkling of this inclination, for she turned and beat a hasty retreat 
along the narrow passage which led from the bedroom to the body of 
the house. Olivia did not at once follow her. With a curious re- 
luctance, whether reverence for a dead past whose relics she was 
disturbing, or fear of some shock which its revelations mia'ht bring 
her, she scarcely knew, the girl picked up one of the dust-begrimed 
novels, and looked at the title page. But there was nothing written 
on it. She opened three or four more of the novels with the same 
result. By this time it was growing so dark that she had to hasten 
her movements for fear that when at last a clue was found she might 
be unable to distinguish the letters. Having in vain examined 
every book upon the table, she continued to explore until she found, 
on a small hanging bookshelf in an obscure corner of the room, a 
little pile of devotional works— Bible, hymn book, Bogatsky’s 
“Golden Treasury,” a tiny “Daily Portion,” and a prayer book. 
This last was on the top of all. As Olivia opened it, there fell to the 
floor tiny dried scraps of flowers and fern. Turning to the flyleaf. 


16 


ST. cutiibert’s tower. 


and carrying* the book in haste to the window, she found these words, 
written in a round, school-boy hand— 

“Ellen Mitchell, from her affectionate brother Ned.” *And a date 
of eighteen years back. 

Olivia replaced the prayer book on the shelf, and left the old room 
without further delay, followed by Lucy, who had remained close at 
hand, but discreetly silent, during* these investigations. 

When they reached the outer end of the passage, Olivia glanced 
with some curiosity at the old door she had so roughly broken down, 
and as she did so, some letters written in pencil high on the upper 
panel caught her eye. With difficulty she made out a date in July 
ten yen,rs oefore. 

“I wonder,” she thought, “ whether that is the date on which the 
rooms were locked up. K so, it was eight years before the last 
people left the house, I know. And their name was Mitchell. Who 
can I ask to tell me the story ?” 

And, having forgotten cold, fatigue, and hunger in the interest of 
her discoveries, Olivia Denison made her way slowly down to the 
ground-floor again, where she caught Mrs. Wall in the act of slipping 
out of the front door. 


CHAPTER HI. 

The estimable Sarah Wall was, as she herself would have said, 
“ not in the best of tempers ” at being intercepted in her proposed 
flight. 

“ Ah thowt ye’d got all ye wanted,” she grumbled, as Olivia Deni- 
son followed her out on to the doorstep and asked her where she 
was going. “ Ah wur goin’ whoam to get a coop o’ tea, for Ah’m 
fair demmed. ” 

“You thought we’d got all we wanted !” said Olivia, ironically. 
“ Why. we’ve got nothing at all— not even a chair to sit on, I think, 
if you nave tea going at your cottage, you might ask us to come and 
have some.” 

“Hey, that ye might, Sally,” said a gruff voice, which Olivia had 
now learnt to recognize as that of a friend. 

Turning, she saw Mat Oldshaw, his blushes, if he were still blush- 
ing, invisible in the darkness, standing at the foot of the steps, 
mounting guard over the luggage, which he had piled together. 

“ Oh,” cried the girl, with a sudden change to melting gratitude, 
“ you haven’t been waiting out here in the cold all this time for us, 
have you?” 

“Weel, miss,” said Mat, laughing uneasily, and shifting from 
one heavy foot to the other, “ t’ door was shut, an’ Ah couldn’t get 
in.” 

And, to put an end to conversation, which was an art in which he 
felt he did not shine, the young fellow seized the two smallest trunks 
and carried them straight into the big farm living room, whistling a 
lively tune as he did so. Olivia stood back quite silently while h(*, 
fetched in the rest of tlie limgage in the same way, and then stood 
looking at it dul i >usiy by the light of Mrs. Wail’s candle, 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


17 


“ It bean’t naw good onfastenin’ t’ cords,” he said at last, “ for they 
■won’t stay in here. An’ Ah dunno reightly what to be doin’ for ye 
if goods bean’t coom.” 

He went back again to the front door and looked out. Not that he 
could see anything of the road, for the hug’e barn opposite, com • 
pletely blocked the view from this point. But he was a good deal 
affected by the predicament in which this beautiful lady and her 
attendant found themselves, and he was shy of meeting the lady’s 
eyes, being without means of comforting her. Suddenly a figure 
darted out from the gloom under the barn walls, a strong hand was 
laid upon the lad’s arm, -and, willy-nilly, he was dragged down the 
steps and heartily cuffed before" he had recovered from his first 
surprise. 

“ Eh, feyther, what art doin’ now?” he asked, as soon as he had 
recovered breath, having speedily recognized the touch of his parent’s 
loving hand. 

“ Eh, thou feaul, thoo teastrill ; Ah’ve got tha ! Ah know’d wheer 
thoo’d got to. This cooms o’ followin’ fowk wha can’t keep off t’ 
lasses. Coom whoam ; coom tha whoam, and if ivver Ah catch tha 
again a-slitherin’ about yon house, Ah’ll turn ye oot o’ ma house, and 
oot o’ ma farm, as if ye wur nobbut a ploughboy, thet Ah will !” 

Mat wriggled and writhed till he got loose from his father’s grasp, 
and slinking back a step or two, he called out, not loudly or defiantly, 
but with the same rough kindliness which he had shown from the 
first towards the friendly girls— 

“ Now mind, Sally,, thou maun mash t’ best coop o’ tea thoo can 
for t’ leddies.” 

John Oldshaw turned round at these words, and addressed the old 
woman in a thick and angry voice. 

“ Sarah Wall, get back to tha whoam an’ tha own business. An’ 
if thoo canna keep tha owd fingers oot o’ other fowks’ affairs, tha 
needna coom oop oor way o’ Soondays for t’ broaken meat. So now 
thoo knaws.” 

And, with a jerk of the head to his son to intimate that Mat could 
go on in front and he would follow, the farmer stamped slowly and 
heavily away down the yard. 

His coarse unkindness affected the three women differently. Little 
Lucy began to whimper and to sob out indignant maledictions upon 
“the ol-3-old brute Mrs. Wall, after dropping half a dozen fright- 
ened courtseys, manifested a great eagerness to go ; Olivia drew her- 
self up and became very stern and grave. 

“ You need not mind what that man says, Mrs. Wall,” she said, in 
a firm quiet voice. “You may be very sure that any kindness you 
do us will be amply repaid. And as for the broken meat he talks about, 
if you will really lose that by letting us rest a little while in your 
cottage and giving us a cup of tea, I can promise you a good dinner 
every Sunday while my father lives here.” 

But Mrs. Wall was too far timorous and cautious a persou to risk 
the substantial reality of broken meat on Sundays from the great 
man of the village for the flimsy vision of a good dinner from a total 
stranger. She thrust her flickering- tallow candle into Lucy’s hands, 
and began to tie ber wispy bonnet strings with a resolute air. 


18 


ST. cuthbert’s towee. 


leave t’ candle,” she said, as if making a great and generous 
concession : “an’ that’s a’ I can do for ye. For I’ve nowt in mv 

E lace I could set afore a leddy ; an’ as for tea, the bit fire I left will 
e out by this time. ” 

“But I can light your fire again for you, and boil your kettle in 
two twos,” burst in Lucy. “ And we’ve brought some tea with us.” 
Her young mistress put a light hand on her arm. 

“Nevermind, Lucy,” she said, quietly. “If Mrs. Wall doesn’t 
care for us to go to her cottage we will not trouble her.” 

As she spoke her eyes brightened, for at the end of the long bam 
she descried in the dusk the figure of the gentleman who had come 
to their aid that afternoon and then left them with such unaccount- 
able suddenness. Lucy saw him too, and being more demonstra- 
tive than her mistress, she gave vent to her delight in words. 

“No, Mrs. Wall, ma’am ; you needn’t go for to put yourself out, 
for there’s better folks than you coming along, that are a deal more 
obliging than ever you’d be, and that have some Christian kindness 
in them, which is more than can be said for you. Ugh, you grumpy 
old woman, you !” 

“ Hush, Lucy,” said her mistress in gentle rebuke ; “ the gentle- 
man will hear you. And I don’t suppose he’s is coming here at all,’’ 
she added, reluctantly, as the figure they had both so quickly recog- 
nized disappeared again in the gloom. 

“What gentleman? What gentleman ?” asked the old woman, 
shrilly. 

“How should we know, when we’re strangers here?” retorted 
Lucy, who, now, that her tongue was once loosened, was delighted to 
have what she afterwards called “a go-in” at their disobliging guide. 
“ But he was a real gentleman ; not like your pig-faced friend in the 
corduroy trousers that you’re so mighty civil to ; and he wears knick- 
erbockers and gaiters and a cap over his eyes, if that is anything you 
can tell him by.” 

Apparently it was, for Sarah gave a step back in horror, and ejacu- 
lated “Mercy on us !” two or three times, as if too much shocked for 
further speech. 

“ What’s the matter?” asked Olivia, rather sharply, remembering 
the stranger’s warning that she would hear no good of him from 
Sarah Wml, and curious to learn the reason. “If you know who 
the gentleman is, tell me his name. And what do you know against 
him ?” she added, indiscreetly. 

Mrs. Wall, though not brilliantly intelligent, had the splendid gift 
of reticence where she thought that things might “go round.” She 
only shook her head, therefore, and muttered something about get- 
ting herself into trouble and desiring to be allowed to go home. 

“ Well, just tell me first who he is, then, and you sh^lgo at once,” 
said Olivia, persuasively. 

The old woman, writhing nervously under the clasp of Miss Deni- 
son’s hand, evidently cast about in her mind for a means of getting 
free while committing herself as little as possible. The reluctant 
words which at last came out were not very well chosen, however. 

“I’ll tell ye this, then,” she croaked, in a broken whisper, peering 
round with her sunken eyes as if to be sui-e the treasonable com- 


ST. CUTHBERT'S TOWER. 


10 


munication she was making' was not overheard by the person con- 
cerned. “Yon gentleman, as ye call him, is not tit company for 
young ladies. And others have found it oot to their cost— so fowk 
say,” she added, hastily. Then, as Olivia released her arm and 
she tottered away over the hard ground, she looked back to add, in 
a querulous and anxious tone, “ But don’t ye tak’ it frae me, mind. 
I nobbut told ye what I’ve heerd say.” 

Olivia turned back towards the open door of the dreary house, 
feeling beyond measure miserable ana disconsolate. The dimly seen 
figure of her friend of the afternoon had disappeared ; the disoblig- 
ing old woman who was at least a fellow-creature, was rapidly hob- 
bling out of sight ; Avhile the words which had just, with so much 
difficulty, been forced out of her, seemed in the hag’s mouth to have 
acquired the chilling significance of a curse. Lucy felt this too, for 
coming closer to her mistress she half whispered — 

“ Oh, Miss Olivia, if there was really such things as witches, I 
should believe that old crone was one.” 

“ Nonsense! Come inside, and let us see what’s to be done.” 

“ Oh, you’re not going in again— all by ourselves! Oh, miss, just 
think of that upstairs room!” wailed the poor girl. 

“Now, look here, Lucy, you mustn’^. be ridiculous. We’re in a 
dreadful plight, and we’ve got to make the best of it. If you give 
way to silly fancies instead of doing your best to help me, I snail 
have to take you to that inn at the corner and leave you there while 
I come back and shift for myself as best I can.” 

Lucy, who loved her young mistress, grew sober and good im- 
mediately. 

“ You know I’ll do what I can. Miss Olivia,” she said, suppressing 
a sob of alarm as a dull sound, apparently from the barn opposite, 
reached their ears. 

Olivia listened. The sound was repeated. 

“It sounds like some person chopping wood,” she said, after a 
moment’s pause. “I daresav, now the place is uninhabited, the 
villagers take what liberties they like with it, and use the barns and 
sh^s to store their own wood and hay and things in. Now, come in, 
and let us undo some of the trunks before the candle goes out. 

With most reluctant feet, but without another word of remon- 
strance, Lucy followed her young mistress. Olivia, with resolute 
steps and a mouth set with an expression which said to the phantoms 
of the old house, “Come on if you dare!” re-entered the hall, and 
kneeling down before a trunk which had been placed there, attacked 
the cord round it with inexpert but strong fingers. They had got it 
open, and were congratulating themselves that in this, the first trunk 
unpacked, were candles, tea, and a little spirit lamp, when, suddenly, 
there fell upon their ears a noise which even to the brave spirited 
Olivia was, in a lonely, empty house, undeniably alarming. It 
came from the long living room where most of their luggage lay, 
and was as of some neavy body falling with a crash on to the floor. 

Olivia sprang to her feet. 

“I opened one of the windows,” she said, “and forgot to shut it. 
Some one has got in ! No, don’t scream !” 

She clapped her hand on Lucy’s mouth and reduced the threatened 


20 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


shriek to a moan ; then, the noise having* by this time ceased, she 
turned, heedless of the maid’s whispered supplications, to the door of 
the long* room. The lock was stiff* with rust and the handle difficult 
to turn ; so that, perhaps not much against her will, she left the in- 
truder, if intruder it was, time to escape. But there was no fresh 
sound, and the young girl’s brave heart fluttered a little with the 
fear that j^rhaps, on opening the door, she would come face to face 
with a defiant marauder. At last the door opened. It was dark by 
this time ; through the opened shutters of the four windows came 
only just enough light to show that the trunks, piled up on the bare 
floor, had at least not been removed. The air blew in, very keen and 
cold, through the one open window, which was at the other end of 
the room, nearest to the fireplace. 

“ Is anybody there?” asked Olivia, scarcely without a tremor. 

Her voice echoed without reply in the desolate department. 

She held up the candle and advanced slowly, examining every 
gloomy corner. No one was there ; no trace of any one having been 
there until, as she reached the other end, her glance fell on some dark 
object lying close under the open window. At this sight Lucy could 
not suppress the long-stifled scream, and it was not until her mistress 
pouncing down upon the mysterious thing, revealed the fact that 
it was only a couple of logs and a bundle of sticks, neatly tied to- 
gether with a piece of string, that she found enough relief from ter- 
ror to burst into tears. 

“Who’s the benevolent burglar, I wonder,” cried Olivia, her spir- 
its rising instantly at the discovery of the little anonymous act of 
kindness. * 

She ran to the window and looked out; There was no one to be 
seen ; but on the window-ledge lay a box of cigar lights. 

“ The mysterious stranger again !” she said to nerself. Then 
turning to the maid, said, “Now, Lucy, make a fire as fast as you 
can. There are some newspapers with the rugs. Here are sticks 
and logs and matches. We shall feel different creatures when we 
are once warm.” 

She shut down the window and boiled some water with her little 
spirit lamb ; while Lucy, with cunning hands, made in the huge 
rusty grate a fire which was soon roaring up the chimney, and pour- 
ing its bright warm light on floor and wall and ceiling. The spirits 
both of mistress and maid began to rise a little as they drew up one 
of the smaller trunks to the tire, and made a frugal meal of biscuits 
and milkless tea. 

“It is a horrid place, though, Miss Olivia,” said Lucy, who had 
been chilled to the heart by Sarah Wall’s utterances, and did not feel 
wholly sure that she herself had not been bewitched by that uncanny 
person. 

“ Oh, I suppose it might have been worse. They might have 
thrown bricks at us,” said her mistress; “and remember that two 
people have already been very kind to us.” 

“Perhaps the young farmer-man only took to us just out of ag- 
gravation because his father didn’t,” suggested Lucy, who was a 
well-brought-up girl, and affected to take cynical views of young 
men. “And as for the gentleman, why, the old woman as good as 
said decent folk had better have nothing to do with him.” 


bt. cuthbert’s tower. 


21 


“But you surely wouldn’t take that miserable old woman’s word 
for it ?” 

“No, but I’d take his own face," miss. I watched him when the 
old farmer was going on so ; and, my gracious ! I never see such a 
black look on any one’s face before. He seemed to grow all dark 
and purple-looking, and his eyes were quite red-like. It was just 
like as if he’d have knocked the other man down, miss, that it was.” 

“ Well, I don’t think I should have thought any the worse of him 
if he had.” 

“ Oh, miss, it’s an evjl face. And I’m never deceived about faces. 
I said, first time I saw her, that nursery -maid Mrs. Denison sent 
awav without a character was no good. And then that under- 
gardener ” 

“You mustn’t let your prejudices , run away with you. Judge 
people by their actions ; not their looks. Now, I saw something 
quite different in that gentleman’s face, and we can’t both be right. 
It seemed to me that he looked like a man who had had a very hard 
life and a great deal of trouble ; as if he had done nothing but strug- 
gle, struggle with — I don’t know exactly with what ; poverty, per- 
haps, or perhaps with a violent temper, or ” 

She stopped, and stared into the fire, having ceased to remember 
that she was carrying on a conversation. Her wandering thoughts, 
however, soon took a practical turn again. “The cabman !” she 
cried, starting up tragically; “ I never paid him.” 

She was instinctively turning towards the door, haunted by an 
alarming sum in addition of innumerable hours at sixpence everv 
quarter of an hour, when Lucy’s voice, in tones of great shrewd- 
ness, stopi^d her. 

“ Oh, Miss Olivia,” she said, shaking her head knowingly ; “ he’s 
gone away long ago. If this was a place where cabmen would wait 
for their fares for two hours without so much as knocking at the 
door, we might think ourselves in heaven, which the other people 
shows us we’re not.” 

“ Well, but who paid his fare, then ?” 

Lucy began to look not only mysterious, but rather alarmed. 

“ Oh, Miss Olivia, perhaps it’s a plot to get us into his power !” 

They had both come to the same conclusion as to the person who 
paid the fare, but at this point their reflections branched off into 
widely different channels. " w 

“ You’re a little goose, Lucy, and you’ve been filling your Mead 
with penny novels, I can see,” said she. y 

But the obligation to a stranger, which she could scarcely doubt 
she was under, troubled her. 

“ It is very, very awkward to be thrown out like this in a strange 
place with nobody to go to for help or advice,” she began ; when 
suddenly a light came into her face, and she sprang up and ran to 
fetch her travelling bag. “ I’d forgotten all about it !” she cried, as 
sfie drew out a closed letter directed in an old-fashioned, pointed, 
feminine hand to “ Mrs. Brander, the Vicarage, Hishton.” “The 
wife of one of the curates at Streatham knows the wife of the vicar 
here, and gave me a letter of introduction to her. I will go and call 
upon her at once. If she is the least nice she will help us, and tell us 
how to treat with these savages.” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 

Olivia was fastening her mantle, which she had not taken off, and 
putting on her gloves. Lucy’s round face had grown very lon^. 

“ And must I stay here, miss, all by myself?” she asked, dolefully. 

Olivia looked at her dubiouslv. 

“ I would rather you stayed here, certainly, because, you see, the 
furniture might come while we were away,” she said at last. “ On 
the other hand, if you are going to frighten yourself into a fit at the 
scraping of every mouse ” 

Lucy drew herself up. She was not really a coward, and this 
speech put her upon her mettle. 

“I’ll stay, Miss Olivia,” she said, resolutely ; adding, in a milder 
voice, “You won’t be very long, will y^ou?” 

“Indeed I won’t,” answered her mistress, promptly. “I don’t 
suppose it takes more than five minutes to go from one end of the 
village to the other. We saw the church from the cab windows ; it’s 
on the top of the hill. I shall make for that ; the Vicarage is sure 
not to be far off.” 

Without more delay Olivia left the hou.se,taking the way to the 
right by which they had approached the house, in the hope of meet- 
ing some one belonging to the inn who would direct her. She was 
fortunate enough to come upon a diminutive villager, who, after 
lengthy interrogation and apparent ignorance as to where “the 
Vicarage” was, acknowledged to knowing “ where the parson lived.” 

“Will you take me to the house if I give you twopence ?” 

“ Hey,” replied the small boy, promptly. 

He did not start, however, until he had taken an exhaustive survey 
of her, either for identification in case she should try to elude him at 
the other end of the journey, or to satisfy himself whether she was a 
person likely to possess twopence. 

“ Theer’s two ways,” he said, at last. “ Short way over t’ brook, 
an’ oop t’ steps and through t’ churchyard ; long way by t’ road an’ 
oop t’ hill.” 

“ Go the short way, then.” 

“Mr. Midgley, t’ carpenter, fell an’ broak his leg goin’ ooptheer 
this afternoon. An’ t’ churchyard ; geate’s cloased by now.” 

“ Well, then, we’ll go the other way, of course.” 

The boy trudged along up the road, which was a continuation of 
that by which they had come to the farm, and made no attempt at 
conversation except in answer to Olivia’s questions. She made out, 
after much persevering pumping, that the vicar, Mr. Brander, was 
much liked, and that his wife was only a little less popular. After 
this there was a pause, which was broken by the boy, as they passed 
between a plain stone building, standing back from the road on tlie 
right, and a group of hay and straw stacks, sheds, and farm build- 
ings on the left. 

“ That’s Mester Oldshaw’s farm,” said the boy. 

“Ugh!” ejaculated Olivia below her breath, hurrying on with 
angrily averted eyes. 

The whole place, seen by the weak light of the rising moon, seemed 
to her to display the repulsive hideousness of its master. 

After this the road wound to the left up the hill, and they passed a 
a few scattered cottages, one of which was the primitive vil&ge post 
office. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


23 


“That be t’ parson’s house,” said the boy, as they came in sight 
of an irregularljr built stone house standing high, on the left-hand 
side of the road, in a well -wooded garden. 

They had to go round this garden, and turn sharply to the left into 
a private road at the top of the hill. This brought them face to face 
with the gates of the little churchyard, while on the left was the 
front door of the Vicarage, a pretty building in the Tudor style, which, 
seen even in the faint moonlight, had a pleasant, welcoming air of 
comfort, peace, and plenty. Olivia gave the boy his twopence, and 
rang the bell with a hopeful heart. Everything seemed to promise 
well for the success of her errand. A neat maid soon came to the 
door, but to Olivia’s inquiry whether Mrs. Brander were at home 
came the dispirting answer that she was away. Miss Denison re- 
flected a moment. 

“ Is Mr. Brander at home ?” she then asked. 

“ Yes, ma’am, Mr. Vernon Brander is in. Will you see him ?” 

“ Yes, if I can.” 

She followed the servant across the wife, well-formed hall, to a 
door at which the maid knocked. 

“ Come in,” said a voice, which seemed familiar to Olivia. 

“ A lady wishes to see you, sir,” said the servant. 

“ Show her in at once,” said the man’s voice. * 

Olivia drew back instead of advancing, as the servant made way 
for her to enter. 

“It is Mr. Brander, the clergyman, I wish to see,” said Olivia, 
hurriedly, in a low voice. 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, it’s all right. Mr. Brander is a clergyman,” 
answered the maid, reassuringly. 

Before another word could pass, Mr. Brander himself, hearing a 
discussion, came to the door. Olivia looked at him in some confusion. 
It was her unknown friend of the afternoon ! 


CHAPTER IV. 

Olivia’s momentary embarrassment was at once removed by the 
kindness of Mr. Brander’s greeting. 

“ Yes, Mr. Brander is a clergyman. I hope you have no prejudice 
against the cloth,” he said, holding out his hand with a welcoming 
smile. “It’s not a proper clerical garment, I confess,” he went on, 
as Olivia’s glance fell instinctively upon the old shooting coat he now 
wore : “ but I flatter myself the collar saves it.” 

And he pointed to his orthodox round collar. 

“lam not sure of that,” said the young girl, smiling in answer. 
“ For instance, if I had known this afternoon that you were a clergy- 
man, I should have felt much more at ease about accepting your 
very kind services.” , ^ ' 

“ Should you? Well, then, you are at ease about it now. Come 
in, and tell me if there is anything more I can do for you.” 

Olivia followed him into the most charmingly luxurious study she 
had ever seen. Everything in it was comfortable and handsome, in 


24 


gt. CUtH BERTHS TOWER. 


the best modern taste. The doors, mantelpiece, and panelling were 
of carved light oak, the furniture of the same, upholstered in dark- 

f reen morocco. There were portieres and curtains of dark tapestry, 
armonizing with the carpet. The books, which tilled four large and 
handsome bookcases, looked to the connoisseur too dainty to be touch- 
ed by common fingers. Evidences of a woman’s presiding eye and 
hand were there too, Olivia fancied, in a certain graceful draping of 
the curtains, which seemed to her to betray neither the upholsterer nor' 
the housemaid ; in a tall bouquet of dried bulrushes and corn w hich 
stood in one corner ; and in a small conservatory, full of dark palms 
and ferns, into which one of the windows opened. Everything was 
well chosen, everything harmonized with everything else, except the 
shabbily dressed figure in the centre, with his lean, dark, worn face, 
and hungry black eyes, and the tattered volume he held in his hand. 

. Mr. Brander read the thought that flashed through his guest’s mind, 
and asked — 

“ Now, what is your first impression of this room ?” 

“ It is very, very pretty,” said Olivia. 

“ Well, and what else 

“ Some one else had more to do with the arrangement of it than 
you.” 

Olivia had never before felt so perfectly at ease with a stranger— 
so able to speak her passing thoughts out frankly and freely. 

“ Bight ; quite right. And now let me hear what sort of a guess 
you can make as to the person w^ho had the arrangement of it. ” 

‘ ‘ It was a lady. Perhaps a ladv who has had some art-school train- 
ing ; but one wmo can think for nerself a little too. Not an every- 
day sort of lady, and yet not eccentric. One whom you would like 
to know, but whom you might be a little afraid of.” 

By the interest and pleasure with which Mr. Brander followed her 
as she proceeded slowly and cautiously with her conjectures, Olivia 
felt sure that she was describing his wife, and alscrthat she was get- 
ting near the truth. • But then a look of pain came into his dark face, 
which set her wondering whether they had had a severe quarrel, 
whether there was some serious estrangement between them, or 
whether the trouble from which he w^as evidently suffering was caused 
merely by the absence of the woman of his heart. This singular 
clergyman, with his unconventional dress and manners, his w^orn 
face, and his great kindness, was so different from any of the stiff 
curates and unctuous vicars she had ever met, that he and his sur- 
roundings awoke her in the liveliest interest, even apart from the 
mysterious warning of Sarah Wall, and the surly insolence shown 
towards him by Farmer Oldshaw. After a short pause, he said— 

“ Bight in every particular. Now we will see if you can find the 
lady.” 

On the mantelpiece was a collection of photographs, most of them 
of more or less beautiful women, all handsomely framed. Mr. Bran- 
der invited Olivia to come up and inspect them. With another slight 
feeling of surprise, which she would have found it hard to account 
for, she stepped on to the soft fur hearthrug and made a careful re- 
view of the whole gallery. But here she was quite at a loss. 

“ I must lose my character for divination,” she said at last, shaking 


ST. CtJTHBERT’S TOWER. 


25 


her head as she stepped hack. “I don’t see any face that I could point 
out with any certainty.” 

“ Try.” 

She chose one. Mr. Brander shook his head. 

“Wrong-,”' he said. “You have disappointed me. What made 
you choose that one? Give me the nearest approach you can to a 
reason.” 

“ It looks a good, kind, sensible face.” 

“ It belongs to a good, kind, sensible woman — a Miss Williams— a 
striking contrast to the rest of her familv,” he added as a comment 
to himself. “But she is not the lady who chose the fittings of this 
room. What do you say to this one ?” 

It was Olivia’s turn to be disappointed, and her face showed her 
surprise. The photograph was that of a woman who was very hand- 
some, and there your reflections concerning her portrait ended. Mr. 
Brander laughed. 

“ Sav what you think of it quite frankly. I shan’t be offended,” 
he said. 

“ It is a beautiful face,” she answered. 

“Well, what else?” 

“Nothing else,” said Olivia in desperation. “Mrs. Brander may 
have every great quality that ever adorned a woman ; but her face, 
like nearly ^1 very beautiful ones, I think, is just beautiful and noth- 
ing else.” 

“ Don’t you see any feeling, imagination, passion ?” 

“No — 0 , indeed I can’t.” 

“Well, that’s all right, because she hasn’t any.” 

Olivia listened rather awkwardly, for Mr. Brander had uncon- 
sciously let a little feeling, a little bitterness sound in the tones of his 
own voice. 

“ Do you see great common sense, shrewdness, and a splendid 
faculty for perceiving where the greatest advantage lies to her and 
hers ?” 

His tone was still a little bitter, but it was good humored and play- 
ful also. 

“ Oh no !” said Olivia. 

“ Well, then, you should see those qualities, for they are all there.” 

“And may I know who this is?” asked Miss Denison, to turn the 
conversation from a point where she had no more to saj. 

She was looking at the companion frame to that which contained 
the lady’s portrait. It held the picture of a strikingly handsome man, 
not far off middle age, plump, good humored, and prosperous-looking, 
dressed in correct clerical costume, with a beautiful child seated on 
his knee. 

“ That is my brother.” 

“ Your brother !” 

All the rules of courtesv could not avail to hide her surprise then. 
A greater contrast could not be imagined than that between this 
worn, haggard, ascetic-looking, shabby man, wdth his unconven- 
tional dress and manner, and the neat, smiling, comfortable-looking 
gentleman, who seemed to beam from his morocco frame on a world 
where tithe wars were not. Then a light flashed upon Olivia, and she 
gave Mr. Brander a smile of triumphant shrewdness. 


26 


8T. CUTHBERT’S TOWER. 


“ Now I understand it all,” she said, eag*erlv. “This room is your 
brother’s, and this lady is not your wife, but nis.” 

Mr. Brander laug-hed rather sadly. 

“ You think they all ‘ match’ with him better than they would 
with me.” 

Olivia g*rew very red, and in some confusion tried to explain away 
this too obvious conclusion. But Mr. Brander stopped her. 

“You are quite, quite right,” he said, kindly. “You would be 
blind if you couldn’t see it. My sister-in-law saw it, twelve years 
ago, when she was wise enough to reject me and to take my brother.” 

“There, now you see why Mrs. Meridith Brander is destitute of 
feeling, imagination, and passion, and resplendent only in the less 
lovable qualities,” he went on mocking at himself good-humoredly. 
“If she had only chosen me, I should have a very different tale to 
tell, you may be sure.” 

Olivia was silent. The strange contrast between the two brothers 
filled her with pity for the one who had been kind to her, and with a 
sort of unreasonable antagonism towards the unknown one to whom 
fortune had been so much more generous. 

“It seems very hard on you,” she said, glancing at him rather 
shyly. 

But even as she spoke a violent change came over his face which 
chilled and repelled ner, and brought back to her mind with sudden 
and startling vividness the vague warning of the old woman. A flush 
of fierce and vindictive anger, a short, sharp struggle with himself, 
and then Mr. Brander was subdued and kind and courteous as ever. 
But this peep at the nature underneath had made an impression 
upon Olivia which she could not readily forget ; it destroyed the ease 
she had felt with him, and woke a distrust which his instant return 
to his old kindly manner failed to remove. 

“ It is very good of you to think so,” he said, with a courteous 
smile. “ At one time T admit it seemed hard to me too. But I’ve 
been forced to confess long ago that I could not have occupied the 
position he fills either with credit to myself or satisfaction to anybody 
else. While as for poor Evelyn, if she had had the misfortune to 
take me with my bad temper and my inevitable hatred of order, in- 
stead of being still handsome, amiable, o-nd young, she would be a 
haggard old woman.” 

Remembering, as she did, the bitterness which he had previously 
shown in speaking of his sister-in-law, and the fierce animosity w hicli 
had blazed out of his black eyes a moment ^’o in recalling the con- 
trast between his brother and himself, Olivia could not hdp feeling 
that there was a little hypocrisy in this ultra-modest speech, and she 
made some civil answ^er in a tone wRich showed constraint in com- 

g irison with her previous w^arm-hearted and simple frankness. -Mr. 

rander looked scrutinizingly at her face, and reading the change in 
its expression, hastened to open another and less dangerous sub- 
ject. 

“And here I have been gossiping about my own idle affairs all 
this time, without once asking you wdiat you came to see me about, 
and what I can do for you.” 

“I brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. Brander,” said Olivia 


BT. CUTHBEBT’S tower. 


27 


producing it. “The wife of one of the curates at Streetham, where I 
live, or at least where I have been living,” she added, correcting 
herself, “ knew Mrs. Brander some years ago. And she thought, as 
I was coming here all by myself, it would be pleasanter for me to 
know some one.” 

“ My sister-in-law would have help^ you in a hundred ways,” 
said Mr. Brander, regretfully. ‘ ‘ She is a very energetic woman, and 
loves to have some active work to do for anybody, if there is a little 
occasion to show tight over it. And there is in your case ; for that 
unmannerly old ruffian, John Oldshaw, who made himself so otfen- 
sive just now at the inn, wanted to have the farm your father has 
taken, and will annoy you all in every way he can for spite, if I’m 
not mistaken. 

“If he does, I shall get papa to complain to Lord Stannington,” 
said Miss Denison, with a resolute expression about her mouth. 

“ Well, we must hope there won’t be any need to do so. Perhaps 
your father is a better farmer than John Oldshaw, and will be able 
to make him sing small.” 

“ Oh, I’m afraid not,” said she, shaking her head dolefully ; “ papa 
has never been a farmer before. He’s Ibeen a banker, but he never 
did much banking, I think ; an^ the other partners bought him out 
of the bank a little while a^o, and he did nothing at all for a little 
Avhile. But we are not rich enough to live like that, so he thought 
he should like to try farming, especially as my step-mother had been 
ordered to live in the country.” 

Mr. Brander looked grave. He could not help thinking that 
t|?Lings looked very black for his pretty visitor. A weak and idle 
father, an invalid step-mother, such were the fancy portraits he in- 
stantly drew of the pair, setting up as amateurs in a business which 
even experience, industry, and capacity can scarcely nowadays 
make remunerative ! What would become of the bright girl 'in 
these circumstances? 

“How came they to send you down here all by yourself ?” he 
asked, after a pause. 

“ My step-mother— you know I told you I had a step-mother,” she 
interpolated, with mischievous meaning— “has delicate health; 
that is to say, her health is too delicate for her ever to do anything 
she doesn’t wish to do, and she did not wish to come down to an 
empty house, to have all the worry and trouble of hlling it. So I 
offered to do it. Home has been rather tiresome lately, and I 
thought it would be fun, and besides that I really ’^^anted to be use- 
ful, and to make things as comfortable as I could for poor papa. But 
I did think she would see that the furniture was sent in time.” 

“ Yes, that’s an awkward business, certainly. We must consider 
what is best to be done. And while I’m thinking it over, you’ll have 
a glass of wine and a biscuit, won’t you ?” said he, as he touched the 

oiivia did not refuse. She thought her best chance of a happy 
issue out of her difficulties lay in trusting to the clergyman, whose 
persistent kindness was fast effacing the unpleasant impression of a 
few minutes before. She even aske^ him ingenuously whether he 
thought she ought to stay any longer away from the bare house 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


where she had left poor little Lucy alone with the mice. Mr. Bran- 
der quieted her conscience as, in obedience to his order, the maid 
servant brought in wine and cake, with which he proceeded to serve 
the hungry girl. 

“I shall let you go in two minutes now,” he said. “And we 
won’t let Lucy starve either.” 

The servant was still waiting. 

“ What is it, Hester ?” 

“ Young Mr. Williams has called, sir. He wishes to speak to you 
for a minute. I believe he has a message. ” 

Mr. Brander’s face clouded. 

“ Where is he? I’ll go out and speak to him,” he said, shortly. 

But the words were scarcely out of his mouth when a voice, speak- 
ing in coarse and familiar tones, was heard outside the door, herald- 
ing the approach of the new comer. 

“ It’s all right ; it’s only me. Suppose I can come in, eh ?” 

And, without waiting for permission, a young man elbowed his 
way past the servant, and entered the room. 

The word which applied best to Mr. Frederick Williams, including 
his face, voice, dress, and manner, was “cub.” He was short and 
sandy ; he had an expression of mipgled dulness and cunning, in 
which dulness predominated ; his dress, his vocabulary, and a cer- 
tain roll in his walk smacked of the stable ; and the only conspicuous 
quality he showed to balance these disadvantages was a cc.rtain 
coarse good humor which never failed him. He was even destitute 
of that very common grace in young’ men of his type — an unsur- 
mountable shyness in the presence of women of refinement. On 
catching sight of Olivia, seated by the fire, eating cake with un- 
mistakable enjoyment, his eyes op ^icd wide with astonishment and 
boorish admiration, which gave place the next moment to an ex- 
pression of intense shyness as, with a loud cough, he affected to re- 
treat to the door. 

“ Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Brander ; I didn’t mean to interrupt such 
a pleasant tete-a-tete^ I’m sure.” 

But he had no intention of going, and Mr. Brander asked him 
rather curtly what he came for. 

“ Oh, my business is of no consequence ; it will do any time,” an- 
swered Mr. Williams, still with his light eyes fixed upon Olivia. 

“Very likely. But what is it?” asked Mr. Brander, still more 
shortly. 

“ On, my father wants to see you about something It’s about the 
church, I believe ; your church, St. Cuthbert’s. He wants to do 
something for it, I fancy ; says the condition it’s in is a disgrace to 
the neighborhood.” 

Again Olivia saw on Mr. Brander’s face a glimpse of fierce anger, 
with which, however, she this time heartily sympathized. Feeling 
very uncomfortable, she rose and- held out her hand to the clergy- 
man. His face cleared as he took it. 

“ Now, don’t worry yourself too much about the wretched furni- 
ture,” he said, wit^ his old kindliness. “ As you go down the hill, 
mind you stop where the roads cross. There’s a wishing-cap hangs 
on the hedge just there. If you see it, put it on ; if you don’t, make 


ST, cuthbert’s tower. 


29 


the motion of putting* it on, and at the same time say these words 
just under your breath, “I wish that within an hour I may be in- 
stalled very comfortably !” 

“Thank you,” said Olivia, laughing and returning the pressure of 
his hand warmly ; “ if the wishiiig-cap could bring th^t to pass, I 
should begin to look with respect on a broomstick.” 

Mr. William’s face had assumed during these two last speeches an 
expression of mingled bewilderment and contempt. As the lady 
moved towards the door, he followed without having once taken his 
eyes off her. 

“ Will you be able to find your way ?” asked Mr. Brander, as he 
opened the study door. 

“ I’ll go with you ; I’ll escort you. Which way are you going?” 
asked Mr. Williams, eagerly. “To the Hall, eh? I go past it: 
don’t T, Brander?” 

“I believe so,” said the clergyman, shortly. 

“So you see, you’re not putting me to any inconvenience at all,” 
went on the young man. 

“ Oh, I dimi’t think of that,” said Miss Denison, with a little laugh 
and a pretty turn of the head. “ In my part of the world it is never 
an inconvenience to see a lady home. ” 

In the meantime they had all crossed the hall and arrived at the 
front door, where Mr. Brander, with a reluctant frown at his male 
visitor, again shook hands Avarmly with Olivia, and told her not to 
lose heart. He watched the ill-assorted pair as thev went down the 
lane until they turned into the high road. Until they reached this 
point they proceeded in silence, but as soon as they began to descend 
the hill, the young man found voice after his snub. 

“You’re deuced sharp on a fellow,” he said then in a conciliatory 
tone. “It wasn’t my fault that I turned up when the parson was 
making sheeps’ eyes at you.” 

“ If I am to put up with your society until I reach the Hall gates, I 
really must ask you to abstain from making offensive remarks,” said 
Olivia, icily. 

“ Offensive ! Oh, all right. But I warn you that parson chap is a 
deal more likely to be offensive than I am. By Jove !” he continued, 
after a freezing pause; “if you weren’t such a pretty girl I’m 
hanged if I’d go a step further with vou, after vour rudeness.” 

“In your own choice language, ‘I’m hanged if you shall,’ ’’ans- 
wered Miss Denison, with spirit. 

Before the astonished young man could recover his speech, the girl 
had fioAvn down the hill like an arrow with the wind. He had ad- 
mired her before ; for this display of spirit he felt that he adored her. 
At this point the road made a circuitous bend which could be cut off 
by one familiar with the place by crossing the fields. Fred Williams 
was through a gap in the hedge in a moment, and on regaining the 
road he was a few yards ahead of the still flying lady. Darting out 
upon her as she passed, he seized her by tne arm ; and as the attack 
was unexpected, she staggered for a second. 

“ You’re a splendid runner, but you can’t beat me,” said the young 
gentleman, with what was meant to be an alluring mixture of ad- 
miration and manly condescension, 


80 


ST. CUTHBfiRT’S TOWER. 


But it had quite a wron^ effect upon the lady. Pausing* one mo- 
ment to recover her breath and her balance, she extricated herself 
from his insolent clutch with a sudden athletic movement which 
flung him reeling into the hedge, where he lodged amid a great 
crackling of branches. 

“I shall not require your escort further, thank you,” said Miss 
Denison then imperturbably to the spluttering swain. 

And she walked on again with a perfect and defiant security. She 
had not misjudged her effect, for Mr. Williams did not attempt to 
molest her again. Just as she reached the farm gates, however, he 
hurried after her, and without coming to close quarters, said, mali- 
ciously — 

“ Very well, madam. Don’t be afraid that I shall interfere with 
you again. But before you take up with Parson Brander, I’d just 
ask him, if I were you, what has become of Nellie Mitchell.” 

But Miss Denison walked through the gates without a word. 


CHAPTER V. 

To be able to inflict a severe physical defeat upon an obtrusive ad- 
mirer may be a highly convenient accomplishment, but the neces- 
sity for its exercise cannot but be a humiliating experience. Olivia 
Denison felt the hot tears rise to her eyes as she walked up through 
the farmyard to the Hall. If only one of her own stalwart brothers, 
Edward or Ernest, were here to give this insolent cad the thrashing he 
deserved! But Edward was in India with his regiment, and Ernest 
was tied to a desk in a solicitor’s office in London. She must depend 
upon her own arm and own head for her protection now ; fortunately, 
neither was of the weakest, as she herself felt with some satisfaction. 
In fact, she scarcely knew yet what measure of strength, both 
mental and physical, was hers ; for she had led hitherto an easy, 
sheltered life, idle in the sense that all her energy had been spent in 
amusing herself, happy but for certain uncongenial elements at 
home. 

Now there was to be a difference. Without being expected to 
know how it came to pass, Olivia knew that papa had grown poorer, 
that he had become frightfully irritable about bills of late, and that 
various violent and spasmodic efforts at retrenchment, and papas 
reiterated declarations that he must “do something,” had culmin- 
ated in the sale of the beautiful house at Streatham, and in the 
taking of Rishton Hall Farm. There was something not quite pain- 
ful in the feeling that she would have to “ do something” too, and in 
the knowledge that she might now be able to turn her quickness of 
eye and hand to useful account in the service of the father whom she 
iidored. What would his senitive nature do among these Oldshaws, 
and these Williamses, and these Walls, with the most unpleasant 
and disturbing rumors afloat about the very clergyman in charge ? 
This was the reflection which troubled Olivia’s mind as she approach- 
ed the Hall for the second time, and going up the worn steps, let 
herself in without any need to knock at the door. 


ST. cuthbbrt’s tower. 


31 


“Lucy!” she called, as she opened the door of the big- room on the 

ri^t. 

There was no answer. The room was deserted, and the fire had 
burnt low. Olivia shivered as she went in. The run down the hill 
had put her in a glow ; the entrance into this mouldy old chamber 
chilled her. She put more wood on the fire, and sat down to await 
the return of Lucy, who, she did not doubt, had found the loneliness 
of the place too much for her nerves, and had gone out to look for 
her mistress. In a few minutes Olivia began to long even for the 
patter of a mouse’s feet, for the song of a cricket, for any sign of life 
in the desolate old house, if it were only the si^ht of the loathely 
black beetle. The spirit of the unknown Nellie Mitchell seemed to 
haunt her. That girl, who had lived in the house, gone about her 
daily work in this room, whose mementoes still remained undisturb- 
ed and undecayed in these deserted old walls, who was she ? What 
had become of her? “Ask Mr. Brander”: so the odious Fred Wil- 
liams has said with intensely malicious significance. Should she 
dare to do this, and perhaps satisfy once for all those doubts of her 
new friend which not only the conflicting opinions of the villagers, 
but certain morose and repellent changes of expression on his own 
face, had instilled into her ? She could not decide. Between her 
doubts, her loneliness, and her sense of the difficulties of her desolate 
situation, the poor girl was growing so unhappy that when at last 
she heard the sound of footsteps upon the ground outside, she sprang 
up with a cry, and ran to the door, ready to force whoever it might 
be to share her vigil. 

On the doorstep she found Sarah Wall, whom conscience or a 
glimering notion that it might be as well to be “ in wi’ t’ new fowk,” 
had brought back to make inquiries. 

“ Hasna’ yer goods coom ?” she asked, rather apologetically. 

“ No ; they won’t come to night now,” answerea Miss Denison with 
a sigh. 

“There’s summat— a cart or a waggon or summat— at t’ gate 
now.” 

The hope was too much. Olivia gave a little cry. But when, a 
little later, there absolutely did drive up through the farm-yard, and 
draw up at the door, a small open cart closely packed with bedroom 
furniture, she could scarcely keep from bursting into tears. For the 
first few minutes she was too overjoyed to perceive anything very 
singular in this arrival. In the front of the cart, beside the driver, 
sat two neat and buxom country girls, who sprang down to the 
ground with much suppressed excitement and half-hysterical laugh- 
ter, and without any explanation of their presence, proceeded, with 
the help of the driver, to unpack the cart, and to carry the contents 
indoors and upstairs. Olivia stood back bewildered. One had a 
lantern and the other a broom ; neither would advance a step towards 
the old house or up the wide staircase without the comfort and sup- 
port of the other’s near presence. But up they did go at last, stifling 
little screams at every other step, and returning the jibes of the 
driver with prompt retorts. This young man looked like a stable 
boy, or perhaps a groom in undress. As he came downstairs again, 
after having taken up a folding bedstead, Olivia asked him where he 
came from. 


32 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“From f' Vicarag'e, miss,” he answered, with a stableman’s salute. 
“Mr. Vernon sent us down and told us to put t’ things in and coom 
back as quick as we could. T’ lasses was to clean oot a room oop- 
stairs for ye.” 

Sarah Wall was emitting a series of witchlike grunts in the back- 
ground. 

“Mr. Vernon!” cried Olivia ; “Mr. Vernon Brander! Oh, how 
very kind of him ! How very kind !” 

“He’ll be down hisself just now, miss, I think,” continued the lad ; 
“he said he’d coom wi’ t’ second lot.” 

Here Mrs. Wall broke in with a preliminary croaking cough— 

“ Nea, nea ! He wunna coom a-nigj^ this house. He coomed here 
too often in t’ owd time. Nea, nea ! He wunna coom inside noo.” 

“Howd tha tunge, Sal,” said the lad, quickly. “Thoo’d get tha- 
self inf trouble wi’ f vicar if he heerd tha prattlin’ so o’ ’s brither.” 

Whereupon the old woman fell to incoherent mumbling, and the 
lad having discharged his load, saluted the young lady again, and 
drove away. With a pleasant sense upon her that help, ready and 
efficient, was indeed come at last, Olivia went indoors again, and, 
directed by the sounds of active sweeping, and at least as active chat- 
tering, found her way to the best bedroom in this part of the house, 
which the exertions of the two maids were quickly rendering habit- 
able. Thev had brought with them even a large scuttleful of coals, 
and a supply of candles. In half an hour the room was swept, a lire 
lighted, carpet laid down, and two little beds and a suite of bedroom 
furniture disposed to the best advantage. 

“ Mr. Vernon said we was only to nt up one bedroom, ma’am, as 
you’d be sure to want your maid to sleep in the same room with you 
in this big empty house, miss,” said the elder and more responsible 
of the servants. 

“Yes, that is quite true,” answered Miss Denison promptly. 

“ And as soon as we had done this room we was to sweep out the 
big one dowstairs.” 

“ Oh,” said Miss Denison, “you need not do that. One room is 
plenty for us to go on with, and I don’t wish you to have the trouble 
of doing any more.” 

“ Oh, it’s no trouble, ma’am. And those were Mr. Vernon’s orders. 
And when the master and missus is away, we have orders to do just 
as Mr. Vernon says, exactly as if he was master. You see, 
master thinks such a deal of Mr. Vernon.” 

Here was another instance of the strange enthusiasm for Mr. Ver- 
non Brander which he seemed to excite equally with the most violent 
antagonism. 

“I wouldn’t ha’ come here by myself though; not if Mr. 
Vernon had ordered me ever so ; no, and not if master and Mrs. 
Brander hadn’t ordered me too, that I wouldn’t !” broke in the younger 
maid with decision. 

Miss Denison caught sight of a severe frown and a bit of expressive 
pantomine signifying that she was to hold her tongue, from her older 
and more discreet companion. 

“How is that ?” asked the young lady. “Do you think this house 
is haunted?” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


33 


“ Of course not, ma’m,” broke in the elder. “Susan you oug-ht 
to be ashamed of yourself, telling* such silly stuff. Of course, ma’am, 
when a house lies empty some time there’s all sorts of tales gets 
about, and I daresay if you hadn’t come and taken it, in another 
year there’d ha’ been a whole lot of ghost stories and such-like about 
It.” 

Miss Denison saw that there was nothing to be learnt here, so she 
asked no more questions, but waited eagerly for the arrival of Mr. 
Brander. At last, from the position she had taken up on the steps 
outside the front door, she heard the clergyman’s voice and the sound 
of wheels and hoofs at the same time ; a few seconds later the cart, 
again piled with furniture, stopped at the door, and Mr. Brander, 
springing down from his place beside the driver, held out a helping 
hand to tne third person in the cart, who proved to be no other than 
Lucy. Instead of jumping out with her usual activity, however, 
the little maid hung back in the most nervous manner, and finally 
had almost to be lifted out of the vehicle, uttering words of protest 
in a hoarse whisper. 

“Lucy! Why, what’s the matter with you?” asked her young 
mistress, kindly, perceiving by the light of the lantern the clergy- 
man carried that the bright red color had left the girl’s round 
cheeks, and that her eyes were distended with some absorbing 
horror. 

“ Nothing, Miss Olivia— nothing,” stammered she, faintly. “ I— 
I went out to look for you. I thought you might have lost your way 
— and— and ” 

“ As Eben and I were driving down the hill we met her, and, find- 
ing that she was looking for you. Miss Denison, I made her get up 
and come on with the luggage.” 

He did not look at Lucv, neither did she look at him, and in the 
course of the work of unloading and furnishing in which they now 
both proceeded to take an active part, Olivia could not help noticing 
the ashy paleness that came over the maid’s face, and the way in 
which she shrank into herself if accident brought her in close con- 
tact with the gentleman. The installation now went on merrily. 
To Olivia’s great relief Mr. Brander, contrary to Sarah Wall’s pre- 
diction showed not the least reluctance to enter the old house, but 
went backwards and forwards between the cart and the big room 
until there was nothing left to bring in. 

“We haven’t brought nearly enough furniture to fill this big 
room, you know,” he explained, ’as he trundled in a roll of carpet. 
“ The cart would only hold just sufficient to make you a little oasis 
at the fireplace end ; but it’s better than the bare boards, and to- 
morrow we’ll hope you’ll have your own things about you.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Brander, I can’t thank you,” said Olivia, overwhelmed. 
“You have built a palace for us in the desert ; but what will the 
vicar say ? He will come back and find that you have ransacked 
his beautiful house on behalf of two utter strangers 1 I shall never 
dare to look Mrs. Brander in the face after taking part in such a 
sacrilege.” „ , . 

“ My brother would say nothing if I were to turn all the drawing- 
room furniture out into the churchyard,” answered he, promptly. 


84 


BT. outhbert’s tower. 


Yon mustn’t judg*e his temper by my black looks. He and I are as 
different as heaven and— earth. All the ladies fall in love with 
him.” 

“Then I shall not,” said Miss Denison, decidedly. “I like my 
loves all to myself.” 

Mr. Brander considered her attentively, with a quizzical look. 

“ I should think you would,” he said, smiling*. “ I am afraid you 
will be badly off down here— if indeed you could be badly off for 
admirers anywhere. The nearest approach to an elig'ible swain in 
these parts is the gentleman who escorted you home.” 

Olivia, who was nailing up a curtain while Mr. Brander kept 
steady the erection of a box and a chair on which she stood, put 
down her hammer to indulge in a hearty burst of laughter. 

“ Oh, I’m afraid it’s all over with the pretty little romance you 
have been building up for me,” she said, looking down with her 
bright eyes still twinkling with amusement. “ I pushed him into a 
hedge.” 

“At the first blush that does not look promising certainly,” said 
Mr. Brander with perfect gravity, “ considering the rank of the 
parties. For if he had been the clod-hopper nature intended him for, 
and you the dairymaid he would have liked you to be, such a demon- 
stration as that would have been the certain" prelude to a wedding.” 

“ It wasn’t a very ladylike thing to do, I’m afraid,” said Olivia, 
blushing a very becoming crimson. “But reallv he was not the 
sort of person to be dealt with by means of modest little screams and 
flutterings. And— well, the truth is, I really was so furiously angry 
that I would have thrown him over the hedge if I’d been strong 
enough.” 

“I wish you belonged to my parish,” said Mr. Brander, reflec- 
tively. “ It is a great pity such nerve and muscle should be thrown 
away. Now, there’s an old villain who always nods through the 
first part of my sermon, and snores as soon as I grow a little eloquent 
—and— and I daren’t throw him into a hedge myself ; my motives 
might be questioned. But if I could only get a fair and amiable 
parishioner to do it for me, no one could say a word.” 

“ You want to make me ashamed of myself,” said Olivia, giving a 
vicious blow to the nail she was driving in. “ But you shan’t suc- 
ceed. My father and my two brothers think that everything I do is 
right.” 

“ Ah ! Then it’s high time somebody turned up to prove to you 
that everything you do is' wrong.” 

‘ ‘ Thank you. My step-mother does that. ” 

“Then what do papa and the brothers say to her ?” 

“If the world’s turning around depended on dear old papa’s saying 
a harsh word to anybody, the world would stand still. As for my 
brothers, especially Ted, when he is at home breakfast is a skirmish 
with my step-mother, luncheon is a brisk engagement, and dinner 
a hard-fought battle. They are always ordering each other out 
of the room, and it’s q^uite a rare thing for them both to sit out a 
meal at the same table.” 

“ The fault is not quite all on one side, I suppose.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, of course not. When poor Ted is away life is not very 
comfortable, but at least it is not volcanic.” ^ 


ST. cuthbkrt’s towee. 


35 


“ Curions that the common or g'arden step-mother, wherever found, 
should always present the same characteristics. She has child- 
ren of her own, I suppose ?” 

“ Yes, two.” 

“ You don’t love them— I perceive by your tone.” 

“Wait till you see them, and then say whether anvbody could.” 

“I think my professional ministrations are wanted here. Where 
is your Christian charity ?” . 

Olivia turned round to look down upon him with the most earnest 
gravity. 

“ I snail take the liberty of asking you the same question when 
Re^ie gets caressed for his vivacity in cutting a slit in your um- 
brdla, and when you see Beatrice consoled with an orange for some 
impertinence for which she ought to have her ears boxed.” 

“ And it’s all the fault of the step-mother ?” 

“Yes, all.” 

“ Poor lady ; I am beginning to feel the deepest interest in her. 
No doubt she was a perfectly amiable and harmless person before 
this unhappy metamorphosis.” 

“ Yes ; she was our governess— a most excellent woman and very 
strict with us.” 

“I must see what can be done for her. I have a sermon that will 
just suit her, I think ; one that hasn’t done duty for a long time.” 

“ It will be of no use. When she was our governess she never 
missed church ; now she’s our step-mother she never goes.” 

The curtains were by this time hung ; the two maids from the vic- 
arage, after helping Lucy to give the last touches to the arrange- 
ment of the furniture, had run upstairs to see that all was in order 
in the bedroom, and perhaps also to have a little gossip with this new 
frier.d. Mr. Brander looked about eagerly in search of more work. 

“ There’s nothing more to do, I am afraid,” he said, rather wist- 


fully. 

Olivia smiled. “ Afraid !” she echoed. “ Why I should think you 
would be very glad to shake off the dust and the damp of this old 
place, and to get back to that beautiful, cosy room where I found you 
this evening." 

As she spoke, an uncomfortable remembrance of the mystery 
which hung about the house and its rumored connection with him 
came into her mind. Mr. Brander looked straight into her face, and 
said — 

“ Under some circumstances I might be. For I knew this place 
very well before it was left to dust and damp. But now I am glad 
to think that it is going to have life and youth and brightness in it 
ao-ain— very glad ; and I don’t want to hurry away at all.” 

*He spoke so gravely, and expressed his reluctance to go so naively, 
that Olivia was silent, not quite knowing in what tone to answer 
him. Then it suddenly struck him that he might have offended her, 
and without looking into her face again he hastened to say— 

“ You must excuse my boorishness if I don’t express myself in 
the orthodox way. I live like a hermit, and have done for the last ” 
—he paused, and then added slowly, as if counting up the time— “ ten 
years. I have forgotten how to make pretty phrases. What I meant 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


was this : I haven’t had half an hour’s pleasant talk with a lady, as 1 
have with you this evening*, for all that time— ten years ! And it 
will very likely he ten years before I have another. And so I have 
enjoyed myself, and I am sorry it’s over, thoug*h I daresay you are 
rather tired of the rustic parson and his solecisms. ” 

An awkward constraint had fallen upon him ; he had grown shy 
and unhappy. Olivia felt sorry for him, and she answered in tones 
of sweet feminine gentleness which seemed to pour balm upon some 
hidden wound. 

“ I believe part of what you say. For if you had been used to 
ladies’ society you must have known that talking to you has given 
me at least as much pleasure as talking to me can have given you. 
And if you are not going to have another talk with me for another ten 
years, as you threaten, it will be your fault, and not mine.” 

There was a pretty graciousness in her manner, the result of the 
homage her beauty had always obtained for her. Mr. Brander gave 
her a shy glance of adoring gratitude which momentarily lit up his 
dark face. 

“ Thank you,” he said in a low voice. “ I shall remember your 
pretty words and your kind looks, believe me ; but when we next 
meet, it will not be the same, and it will be no fault of yours.” 

Olivia was on the point of breaking out into a passionate assur- 
ance that no hearsay talk altered her opinion of her friends ; but a 
certain gloom which settled on his face and gave him almost a for- 
bidding aspect checked her, and she remembered, while a deep blush 
crept into her handsome cheeks, that it is unconventionally premature 
to call the acquaintance of half a day a friend. So she remained 
modestly silent while he held out his hand and told her, recovering 
his usual manner, that he should write a full description of her to 
his sister-in-law, and that Miss Denison might expect to be char- 
tered as a district visitor before she had time or inclination to say 
“ Jack Robinson.” 

Mr. Brander then called the two maids and started them on their 
walk home ; brought in a luncheon basket which he had left in the 
hall, and handed it to Lucy, telling her to open it when her mistress 
felt inclined for supper ; and, before Olivia could thank him 
for this fresh proof of his kindness, he was already out of the 
house. 

The door had scarcely closed upon him when Lucy, with an 
exclamation of horror and disgust, flung down the luncheon 
basket, and, running to the nearest window, threw it wide open. 

“What are you doing, Lucy?” asked her mistress in astonish- 
ment, crossing quickly to the girl to see whether she was ill. 

“Airing the place,’ miss, after that bad, wicked man,” answered 
the little maid, vehemently. 

“ You ungrateful girl, after all Mr. Brander has done for us. How 
can you say such things ?” 

“ 1 say what I know, miss, and what is known all over the place, 
miss, to every one but you,” answered Lucy, her face crimson with 
excitement. “ He’s a murderer, miss; he 'murdered the poor girl 
who used to live in those rooms upstairs.” 

Olivia was standing at the window, with her hand on the latch to 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


31 


close it. Just as Lucy hissed out those words in a voice shrill and 
broken with horror, Mr. Brander passed. The light from the room 
felRull upon his face. He had heard the girl’s words. A look, not 
of indignation, but of shame, of agony, convulsed his pale features, 
but he did not turn his head. Olivia shivered. She wanted to call 
out to him, to ask him to deny this infamous slander ; but her mouth 
was dry and the words would" not come. For he must have heard, 
she knew, and yet there was no denial in his face. 

With a trembling hand she closed the window. 

“ There, it’s quite upset you ; I knew it would. Miss Olivia,” said 
Lucy, rather triumphantly. “ Aren’t you shocked?” 

But the tears were gathering in Olivia’s eyes. 

“I’m shocked, yes, of course,” said she, sadly. “And I’m dread- 
fUily — dreadfully sorry.” 

Lucy was scandalized. This was not the way in which she had 
been taught to look upon a criminal. 


CHAPTER VI. 

In spite of all her philosophy, of all her fortitude, Olivia Denison 
could not deny, even to herself, that the one terrible word “ murder- 
er,” applied to the man who had proved himself such a kind friend, 
gave a shock such as no newlv formed friendship could stand un- 
shaken. If he had onlv deniea the charge by so much as a look ! 
But, on the contrary, his downcast head aiid hurrying step when 
Lucy’s indiscreet remark fell on his ears seemed like a tacit admission 
of the justice of it. The little maid’s characteristic comments on the 
matter jarred upon her greatly. 

“ You might have knocked me down with a feather. Miss Olivia, 
when they first told me it was him as made away with the young 
woman whose rooms we were rummaging in to-day ! ‘ Lor,’ I says, 
‘ never ! A nice-spoken gentleman like that !’ Indeed, Miss ” 

“ Who was it told you, Lucy?” interrupted her mistress, quietly, 

“It was when I was going up the road, ma’am, looking for you. 
For I got that frightened at last, sitting here all myself, and nobody 
to speak to, and such cracklings and noises as ;^ou never heard along 
the walls ! So I went out a little way, thinking perhaps you had 
missed the road and lost yourself. And I came across two women 
and a man standing at the gate of a farmyard. And I spoke to them 
and they guessed where I came from ; for it seems it was the farm 
belonging to that rude man, though I didn’t know it at the time. 
And they asked me in, saying as they wouldn’t keejp me not a 
minute. And I was so glad not to be alone that I went just inside 
the kitchen door with them— just for a minute. But then they told 
me such things that I felt I couldn’t come back to this house all by 
myself after hearing of them. They said how that clergyman, for 
all his nice-seeming ways, used to be a wild sort of young man, and 
how he once courted her that’s now the vicar’s lady, but she wouldn’t 
have nothing to say to him. And so when she married his brother 
he got wilder and wilder, and he took to courting the farmer’s daugh- 


88 


ST. cuthbbet’s toweb. 


ter that lived here on the sly like, and not fair and open. She was a 
masterful sort of girl, and her brother and his wife, that she lived 
with, let her have her OAvn way too much, and have ideas above ^er 
station. And people think she believed he’d marry her, for her own 
people and every one was beginning to talk ; and then one night — 
it was the 7th of July, Miss, ten years and a half ago — she went out 
to meet him, down by his own church, as people knew she’d done be- 
fore, and she never came back. And nobody’s never seen nothing of 
her from that day to this ; only there were screams heard that night 
down by St. Cuthbert’s— that’s his church, ma’am.” 

Lucy ended in a mysterious whisper, and both she and her mistress 
remained silent for a little while. Then Miss Denison spoke in a 
warm and decided tone — 

“ There must have been investigations made. If there had been 
anything like just ground for supposing that Mr. Brander had made 
away with the girl, he would at least have been hunted out of the 
parish, even if there had not been proof enough to have him ar- 
rested.” 

“ He was arrested. Miss Olivia. But his mother was Lord Stan- 
nington’s sister, so he had friends at court ; and as for his brother, 
he moved heaven and earth to have him ^ot off. And so those as 
knew most didn’t dare to come forward, ana nothing wasn’t found ; 
and as everybody knew the poor girl hadn’t had the best of charac- 
ters, and had always been a bit gay, like, they said there wasn’t evi- 
dence enough, and Mr. Brander was never brought up.” 

“ But he remained in his parish ! That would have been too much 
of a scandal if the suspicion nad been strong. I think you have only 
been listening to a lot of tattle, Lucy said Miss Denison, trying to 
disguise the aeen interest she could not help feeling in this gossip. 

“Well, Miss Olivia, I only tell you what was told me,” said the 
girl, rather offended at the slur cast upon her information. , 

And she crossed over to the fireplace and began to break the lumps 
of coal into a blaze, to intimate that, in deference to her mistress’s 
wish, she had done with idle gossip. But, as she slyly guessed, the 
subject was far too interesting to be shelved like that. 

Miss Denison took it up again abruptly, no longer attempting to 
hide the warmth of her feeling in the matter. 

“ How was it he stayed, then ?” she asked. 

“ It was his brother’s doing, that, ma’am, I believe,” said Lucy, 
delighted to have her tongue loosed again. “ He backed him up, 
and advised him to face it out, so everybody says. And his being so 
strong for his brother, and him thought so highly of himself, made 
people afraid to interfere, like. And so Mr. Vernon stayed. He had 
only a poor parish, full of colliers and such like ; and the poor folks 
liked him, because, for all his wild ways, he was good humored and 
pleasant. So nobody objected much, and he quieted down all of a 
sudden, and grew quite changed, and worked very hard, so that now 
they think the world of him in his own parish, and wouldn’t change 
even to have Mr. Meredith himself for their clergyman. Only the 
story sticks to him, especially close round here, where the girl lived ; 
and, no matter what he does, some of them can’t forget he’s a 
murderer.” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


3S 


Olivia shuddered. It was quite true ; such an incident in a man’s 
life was not one that you could forg’et. She let the subject drop with- 
out further comment, but it haunted her for the rest of the evening 
as she sat brooding over the tire. Lucy, who was of an industrious 
frame of mind, got out her darning and mended away busily. But 
she had a healthy appetite, and she had had nothing more satisfying 
than biscuits and a sandwich throughout the day. Gradually her 
longing glances fell more and more frequently on the despised sup- 
per basket which Mr. Brander had given her. At last she could 
hold out no longer. 

“Are you hungry, Miss Olivia?” she asked, with plaintive mean- 
ing. 


“ Not very,” answered Miss Denison, wakii^ with a start out of a 
troubled reverie. “But I daresay you are, Lucy. I forgot that I 
had wine and cake at— Mr. Brander ’s.” 

Lucy made two hesitating steps in the direction of the basket, and 


“ Do you think— we’d better not— touch it. Miss Olivia ?” she asked, 
doubtfully. 

Miss Denison got up, with a grave and troubled face. 

“ Don’t you think it’s a little too’ late to try to avoid an obligation, 
Lucy, when every one of the comforts round us— hre, chairs, table, 
the very beds we are going to sleep on, we owe to Mr. Brander?” 

Lucy" snatched at this view of the matter readily, and trotted off 
with eager steps to inspect the contents of the basket. These proved 
most satisfactory. 

“Bread, Miss Olivia ; butter, cake, oh ! And a cold fowl ! And a 
silver tea-pot !” she announced gleefully as she made one discovery 
after another, and skipped with her prizes to the table. 

Olivia, healthy girl as she was, could not eat much that evening. 
Her responsibilities in the new home were beginning to look very 
heavy ; and the strange story she had just learnt oppressed her. 
Lucy, on the other hand, found that a good supper led her to take a 
more cheerful view of current affairs. 

“ Oh, Miss Olivia !” she exclaimed, when the meal was ended and 
they were preparing to retire for the night, “how much nicer this is, 
with ghosts and murderers and all, than it’ll be when Mrs. Denison 
comes and the children ! Like this, with just vou, it’s jolly, and I 
could work for you all day. And I suppose when you’ve committed 
a murder it makes you feel that you must be nicer, like, to make up 
for it, for certainly J\Ir. Brander is a nice-spoken gentleman and a 
kind one, and no two ways about it.” 

“Now, Lucy,” said her mistress, gravely, “you must put that 
story right out of your head, as I am going to do. We’ll ho^ there’s 
no truth in it all ; but even if every word were true, we have 
no right to bring it up against a man whose life sets an example to 
the whole parish, and who has shown us kindness that we ought 
never to forget. I hope you will have the good sense and good feel- 
ing not to tattle about it to cook and to Esther when they come.” 

”‘No, ma’am,” §aid Lucy, demurely. 

Miss Denison felt, however, that she was trying to put on human 
nature burdens too great for it to bear, and she wasted no more 


40 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


words in pressing* the point. Tired as she was when she lay down 
that night on the little bed so strangely provided, for some hours she 
could not sleep ; excited fancies concerning the girl who had disap- 
peared and the man to whom her disappearance was attributed filled 
ner head with a waking nightmare. Gratitude remained uppermost, 
however. 

“ He shall see that whatever I have heard makes not the least 
difference,” was her last clear thought before sleeping. 

But Olivia’s kind intentions were more difficult to carry out than 
she imagined. Next day she saw nothing of Mr. Brander, although 
she received another proof of his thoughtfulness. A vanful of the 
much-expected furniture arrived in the course of the morning ; and 
scarcely was it emptied before the two maids from the Vicarag’e ap- 
peared again npon the scene; “by Mr. Vernon’s order,” to give 
what assistance they could towards getting the house ready for 
occupation. Then began for Olivia three of the happiest days she 
had ever passed. There was work — real, useful, genuine work — for 
head and nand and muscular arm in the arrangment of every room 
to the best advantage. The maids from the V’icarage and her own 
trustv Lucy seconded her with a ri^ht goodAvill, being all ready to 
worsliin this handsome, bright-voiced, sparkling-eyed girl, to whom 
the lifting of the heaviest weights seemed to be child’s play, and who 
worked harder than any of them. On the second day the very last 
consignment of the household goods duly arrived, and Olivia was 
able to send back the Vicarage furniture with a grateful little note 
of thanks. In the evening, when she was resting in an armchair, 
tired out with her labors, and enjoying a glow of satisfaction in 
their success, there was a rap of knuckles on the knocker less outer 
door, and Olivia started up, with her heart beating violently. The 
presistent self-effacement on the part of Mr. Brander made the girl 
nervously anxious to show him that her gratitude was proof against 
anv evil rumors ; and the hope that it was he brought a deep flush 
to jfier face as Lucy, now installed in her own kitchen, and busy still 
with polishing of pots and pans, went to open the door. But she 
only brought in a note, which Olivia took with some disappointment. 
It was an answer from Mr. Brander to her own, but was so ver^^ 
formal that Oli via felt her cheeks tingle with shame at the impulsive 
warmth of her letter. 

The clergyman’s note was as follows : — 

“ Dear Madam” — (And she had put “Dear Mr. Brander.” Olivia 
could have torn her pretty hair.) — “I beg to assure you there is 
nothing in what I have done to put you under any sense of obliga- 
tion. In doing what little I could to make you as comfortable as the 
unfortunate circumstances of your arrival would permit, I only 
acted in my capacity of representative to my brother, who is hospi- 
tality itself to all strangers. 

“ I am, dear madam, yours faithfully, 

“Vernon Brander.” 

Olivia read the note twice, while Lucy stood still at the door. 

“ The young farmei*’s son brought it, ma’am, and he’s waiting,” 
said she. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


41 


Olivia went to the door, and held out her hand to Mat Oldshaw, 
who took it very sheepishly in his own g*reat paw, and, having* given 
it a convulsive squeeze, dropped it hastily, as if overwhelmed with 
horror at his presumption in touching it at all. 

“Come in,” said she, smiling, and leading the way into the big 
farm living room ; she had decided that this was to be the dining 
room of the establishment, and had furnished it accordingly. 

Mat followed her shyly, and remained near the door until, by ea^ 
stages, she had coaxed him into a chair at the further end. ^ 
was beautifully washed and combed, and clad in his best clothes, and 
beautifully awkward and bashful withal. 

“It’s very kind of you to bring me this,” she said ; “and I’m very 
glad to have an opportunity of tnanking you for the help you gave 
us the other day. You ran away so fast that I had no chance of 
speaking to you.” 

“ ’Twere nowt, that,” said Mat, in a vo’ce husky from bashfulness. 
“ Ah’d ha’ coom and given ye better help than that yesterday when 
Ah saw t’ goods coom, but Ah didn’t like.” 

“ Would you? Well, we should have found plenty for you to do. 
But your father wouldn’t have liked it, of course.” 

“Feyther ! Ah bean’t afreeaid o’ feyther !” cried Mat, in a burst 
of energetic defiance. “ Neea, it wasna’ for him that Ah didn’t coom. 
But Ah thowt maybe ye’d ha’ been so angry with him for’s rude- 
ness that ye wouldn’t care to ha’ seen me ageean.” 

“ Oh, I knew you had nothing to do with that.” 

“That’s true enoof ; and Ah coom to-neeght to say”— and Mat 
looked down on the floor and grew scarlet to the tips of his ears— 
“ that ye mustn’t be surprised if things doan’t work straight here at 
first. Feyther’s a nasty coostomer when he’s crossed, and there’s no 
denying he’s wild at a stranger takkin’ this pleeace. An’ if he can 
do ye and yer feyther an ill turn he’s not t’ man to stick at it. An’ 
if yer feyther don’t knaw mooch aboot farmin’, ye may tell him not 
to tak’ any advice from moine. But if ye should be in a difficultv 
aboot matters o’ t’ farm, ye can just send for me on t’ quiet, and Ah’ll 
help ye all Ah can. Ah beean’t ower bright maybe, as ye can see 
for yerself. Miss, but Ah understand t’ farm, and what Ah can do for 
ye Ah will.” 

Mat had strung himself up to this speech by a great effort, and he 
reeled it off without any sort of pause, as if it had been an article of 
faith that he had got by rote. Then he ^ot up and gave a hopeless 
look towards the d oor, as if that was his goal, and ne was utterly 
without an idea how to reach it. . _ . . . 

Olivia rose too, and turned towards the fire. Her impulsive 
nature was so deeply moved by this rough but genuine friendliness 
that she had no words ready to express her feelings. 

There was a pause, during which she heard the shuffling of Mat s 
feet upon floor as he prepared himself, with many throes, for another 
rhetorical effort. As she at last turned towards him and again held 
out her hand, he found his courage, and began— 

“An’ wan moor thing Ah’d loike to say. Miss: doan’t you be 
afreeaid o’ parson Brander, for all they may say. Of coorse, ye’ve 
heard t’ story j t’ ill aboot a mon always cooms oot first. Maype t 


42 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


story’s true ; Ah knaw nowt about that. But Ah do knaw that 
there’s ne’er a heart loike his in t’ coontry side. An’ he’s done all t' 
harm he’ll ever do to anybody. An’ — an’ he give me this note foi 
ve, Miss, and Ah’ve given it, and noo Ah’m going. Good-night, 
Miss.” 

With which abrupt farewell he made a countryman’s obeisance to 
her, and sheered off with great promptitude. 

“Good-night. I shan’t forget what you’ve said,” Olivia called 
after him, smiling. 

She sat down again to muse by the fire, holding the open letter 
still in her hand ; and after a few minutes, being utterly tired out 
with the day’s work, she fell asleep. When she woke up she could 
not resist, an exclamation of horror, for she saw confronting her, in 
the dim firelight, an ugly, grinning face, the owner of which broke 
into a peal of hoarse laughter in enjoyment of the shock his presence 
caused her. Starting to her feet, Olivia woke up to the full conscious- 
ness that the ill-favored intruder was no other than her persecutor of 
two nights before. While she was gathering up her forces for a 
withering speech, Mr. Williams gave her a smile and a nod of 
friendly greeting. 

“You didn’t expect to see me, did you?” he began, in a perfectly 
amicable tone. 

“I certainly did not. Nor can I say that I wished for that — 
honor,” answered Olivia, with what ought to have been withering 
sarcasm. 

But Mr. Williams grinned on, entirely unmoved. 

“No; you thought you’d shut me up — choked me off for ^ood, 
didn’t you ? Why, I’ve got brambles and splinters in every finger 
still. But I liked you for it. Oh, I do like a girl of spirit! Why, 
there isn’t a girl about the place I haven’t tried to annoy, and not 
one of them has had the pluck to round on me as you did. But, 
then, look at your muscle, you know,” he added, admiringly. 

“I’m exceeding garteful for your admiration, and I will try to 
deserve it,” answered Olivia, briefly. 

She walked rapidly to the door, which she threw wide open with a 
gesture of invitation to him to go out. Mr. Williams instantly got 
behind an armchair. 

“ No, no., I know you can throw me out if you want to, but just 
let me stay and explain. Look what a shrimp I am compared with 
you. You can’t mind me,” pleaded he. 

. The sight of the little sandy man clinging to the back of the arm- 
chair, and “dodging” aiw movement of hers which he imagined to 
be threatening, caused Olivia’s just indignation to merge into a 
strong inclination to laugh. She remained standing by the door, 
drawn up to her full height, and said, very drily — 

“ I suppose it is of no use to talk to you about the feelings of a 
gentleman. But perhaps you can understand this : I consider you 
an odious person, and I wish you to go. ” 

“ That’s just the impression I wish to stay and remove,” said Mr. 
Williams, blandly. 

“ You won’t remove it by staying,” said Miss Denison. 

“ As for the feelings of a gentleman,” pui'suexi he, ignoring her 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


43 


interpolation, “of course you are q^uite rig“ht. I haven’t got them ; I 
don’t know what they’re like, ana I don’t want to. I’m a hopeless 
little cad, if you like, though nobody but you and the parson would 
dare to call me so, because I’m coming in to a hundred and eighty 
thousand pounds. Doesn’t it make your mouth water — ^{^180,000 ? It 
does make a difference, don’t it, say what you like, in the way you 
look at a fellow?” 

“ It does,” said Miss Denison. “It makes one shudder to think of 
so much money being in the hands of a person who is not competent * 
to make a riglit use of half a crown.” 

“ Why, I never thought of it in that light,” said the gentleman, 
leaning over the back of the armchair, and caressing his chin mus- 
ingly. “ But, look here, I may marry, and she will think she knows 
how to make a right use of it. I’ll warrant.” 

This speech he accompanied by a look which was meant to 
be full of arch meaning. Miss Denison took no notice either of speech 
or look. 

Now, are you going — of your own accord?” she asked firmly, and 
rather menacingly. 

“I don’t know how you ever expect to get married if you 
cut a fellow so short wnen he’s getting near the brink of a 
proposal.” 

“ Now, are you going ?” 

“Yes, yes,’^’ said he, hastily, as she made one step towards 
him ; “ I’m going. Though I don’t see why I should be the only man 
turned out, when I’ll bet I’m the only one with matrimonial in- 
tentions.” 

“ You don’t consider that you are the only one with the audacity 
to spy upon me and to enter this house like a burglalr.” 

“Now how did you g’uess that ? Why, you must have been only 
shamming sleep then, when I hung on to the window sill outside, and 
saw you looking so invitingly like Cinderella that I was obliged to 
come in to get a nearer view.” 

Miss Denison was breathless with indignation. He continued— 

“ As for spying, I’m not the only one. I’ve caught the parson 
prowling about here these two evenings. And, look here, of course 
I saw from the first you liked him better than me, and now you have 
heard the story about him, no doubt you think him more interesting 
than ever. But I don’t intend to be snubbed for a murderer. And 
so I tell you this. Miss Denison : if you are any more civil to him 
than you are to me. I’ll just spread abroad something I know and 
that nobody else knows, and that is : how he disposed of the body of 
the first poor girl who was unlucky enough to have anything 
to do with him. And perhaps that will stop you from being the 

second.” „ , . , ^ ^ 

With these words Mr. Williams came out from his place of refuse 
behind the armchair, and keeping at a respectful distance from the 
fair but stalwart arm which he had already learnt to fear, sidled out of 
the room with a swaggering bow. He looked back, however, when 
he was safely outside the door. 

“Don’t lose heart,” he said. “I shall make you another offer 
some day ; perhaps half a dozen. They’ll come to be your one amuse- 
ment in this hole.” 


44 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


With this delig’htful promise, Mr. Frederick Williams opened the 
front door and let himself out, leaving* his involuntary hostess un- 
able to distinguish which feeling was strongest in her breast— amuse- 
ment or disgust at an impudence which she might well consider un- 
paralleled. 

And that vague, insolent threat of his, what did it mean ? Could 
he really know anything about the mystery concerning the girl 
Ellen Mitchell ? ♦ 


CHAPTER Vn. 

There was no denying that the arrival of these two spirited young 
women had caused a great flutter among the bachelors of Rishton ana 
its neighborhood. For it is to be noted that if, on the one hand, the re- 
markable beauty of the mistress attracted the attentions of the ehte of 
the male population, the rosy cheeks and saucy independence of the 
maid began very soon to make havoc in humbler masculine hearts, 
so that by the* time Sunday came round, and with it the great weekly 
gathering time, the whole village was in a mild ferment of excite- 
ment over the prospect of a close inspection of the strangers— and in 
their best clothes. 

The little church stood on the very summit of the hill on the slope 
of which one side of the village lay. Its foundations and part of its 
walls were very ancient ; but after having been allowed to fall into 
neglect and decay, it had been carefully restored, under its present 
vicar, into a faultlessly trim and vet picturesque little building, the 
fanciful gray stone tower of which could be seen from the Matherham 
high road, rising like a coronet above the trees which grew thickly 
on the crest of the hill. The churchyard was kept like a garden. One 
of its gates led to the Vicarage, one end of which overlooked it ; a 
second led through fields by a long and circuitous route down to the 
village ; the third and principal entrance opened on to a little green, 
well shaded by trees, on which, close under the churchyard wall, the 
old village stocks, green with damp and a trifle infirm from age and 
neglect, stolidly survived its time of active service. A long two- 
storeyed cottage, green with untrimmed ivy and yew trees, which 
w'ere suffered to overshadow the small willows, stood at right angles 
with the Vicarage, facing the green. Leaning over the wall of the 
front garden was a weather-beaten board, bearing the information 
that the cottage was “To let.” 

When Olivia, attended by the faithful Lucy, arrived at the church 
on Sunday morning, she was at once accosted by the clerk, a small 
and sanctimonious-looking old man, who smelt of spirits, and in- 
ducted into a seat, close under the pulpit, which was, he informed 
her in alow whisper, “the ’all pew.” It was too far forward for 
Olivia to be able to see many of her fellow-worshippers, but one party, 
occupying the opposite pew to her, could not fail to catch her eye. 'it 
consisted of two very showily dressed young women, who entered 
with much rustling and whispering, and were a long time settling 
themselves ; of a much younger brother and sister, whom they 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


41 


hustled into a very small corner of the pew ; and of Mat Oldshaw, 
who occupied the outside seat, and who appeared to be bashfully con- 
scious the whole time of Miss Denison’s presence, though he never 
once dared to look in her direction. 

Olivia was one of the first of the congregation to arrive, and in the 
interval before the service commenced, she could not help regarding 
with some interest such of her new neighbors as came within her 
range of vision. The Oldshaw family, with the exception of Mat, 
she knew she should not like, but in a large pew in front of them sat 
a lady whose appearance attracted her greatly. She was not very 
young or very pretty ; she was dressed with great simplicity in a 
dark costume and a long seal-skin jacket ; and the word b^ which a 
stranger would have described her was ‘ ‘ l^y-like.” It was impossible 
to help contrasting her with the two fidgety women behind ; and 
Olivia was growing more and more sure that she should like to know 
her when, to her surprise, she suddenly heard a loud, hoarse whisper, 
“Here, gee up, Soosan,” and looking round, she saw the quiet-look- 
ing lady move up the pew at the behest of the odious Frederick 
Williams. 

As Olivia turned her head, she met this young man’s admiring 
eyes turned upon her with their usual vacant stare. He was attired 
this morning like the “swell” of the comic scenes of a pantomime, the 
salient points of his costume being an overcoat linea with otter, a 
pink-striped shirt, li^ht gaiters, and brick-colored gloves. Olivia 
fancied also that he had had his hair curled, He bestowed upon Miss 
Denison a nod, a smile, and a wink, and appeared quite unabashed 
by the fact that she vouchsafed him no sign of recognition in return. 
He ensconced himself in the outer corner of the pew, and watched 
her persistently until a heavy and measured tread up the aisle, fol- 
lowed by short, pattering steps, announced two new comers, and he 
had to make way for an elderly couple whom Olivia rightly guessed 
to be his parents. 

Not that they bore any but the faintest family likeness to Olivia’s 
dashing admirer. The gentleman was an erect and handsome man 
of sixty or more, pompous and dignified ; his wife was short, stout, 
good-humored-looking, and well dressed. Just as she noticed these 
facts the church bells ceased ringing, and a small choir of surpliced 
boys came out of the vestry, followed by Mr. Vernon Brander. 

“ Isn’t he a dear?” Miss Denison heard one of the fidgety ladies 
whisper to the other, enthusiastically. 

Mr. Brander conducted the service with no assistance but that of 
the choir and the clerk, who was evidently a privileged person ; for 
for he put everybody out who was within a dozen feet of his nasal 
voice. Olivia was impressed by the sermon, but she was hardly 
sure whether the impression was altogether favorable. For the 
preacher did not speak “as one having authority,” but rather as 
the servant than the teacher of his hearers ; as one who was bound 
to keep them in mind of truths which they knew already, rather than 
as one who held up their duty before them with all the weight of a 
respected and honored pastor. 

When the service was over, Olivia lingered a little in the church- 
yard, looking at the gravestones, not unwilling to give the much- 


46 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


discussed Mr. Brander an opportunity of proving that no rumors 
could affect her behavior to one who had been kind to her ; but ho 
would not avail himself of it. On coming out of the church, which 
he did with extraordinary little delay, Mr. Brander seemed purpose- 
ly to avoid glancing towards the spot where she was standing, but at 
once ,with q^uick steps, made for the gate at which the lady, whose 
appearance nad attracted Olivia, was waiting. Her party, including 
the ill-mannered Frederick, had gone, as they had come, without 


her. 

Olivia, who, like all young girls, could see a great deal without 
looking, knew that the clergyman and the lady were talking about 
her, and she would not pass out at the gate while they stooa there. 
So she continued her inspection of the tombstones, with a heart beat- 
ing rather faster than usual, for the very few minutes that the tete-a- 
tete lasted. Now, surely, she mi^ht have a chance of speaking to 
him ; in common civilty he would come, if onlv, as his note express- 
ed it “ as his brother’s representative,” to ask how she was getting 
on with her furnishing, and whether her friends were coming soon 
to relieve her of her responsibilities. He passed quite near to her on 
his way to the Vicarage gate. She raised her head with a smile 
and a heightened color, ready to give him her prettiest greeting ; 
but he looked away with a persistency which she could no longer 
doubt was intentional, and it was with a blush of the deepest morti- 
fiication that Olivia, whose burning eyes no longer saw inscriptions, 
or tombstones, or anything but a particularly tactless and unobserv- 
ant clergyman, whose conduct in not allowing her to lessen her ob- 
ligation to him by an expression of her gratitude was, Olivia felt, 

' highly reprehensible. She was so hurt, so indignant, that when the 
pleasant-looking lady, who stood by the gate and watched her ap- 
proach, made a movement forward as if to address the young stran- 
ger, Olivia turned her head stiffly away. She would gave no open- 
ing to the friend of the man who had so deeply offended her. 

But anger in Olivia’s breast was a feeling which could not last. 
Before she was halfway down the hill she was sorrv for her hasty 
action and ashamed of her disappointment. With tlfie exagg'erated 
feeling of an impulsive young girl, she blamed herself as ungracious 
and ungrateful, and decided that the avoidance of a man as kindly 
and chivalrous as Mr. Brander had proved himself to be could only 
proceed from the most honorable motives. 

The observant Lucy, perhaps, detected a lightening of the cloud 
on her young mistress’ face, for, at this point of the latter’s reflec- 
tions, she broke the silence she had discreetly kept since leaving the 
churchyard. 

“ It’s a lot to do to take the service here in the morning, and at 
St. Cuthbert’s in the afternoon, and a young men’s class four miles 
away at night, isn’t it, ma’am ?” she asked,' glibly. 

Lucy had already collected as much local information as if she had 
been settled in Eishton three months, and could have enlightened 
Miss Denison on a good many points of local gossip if she had been 
encouraged to do so. 

“ Why, who does all that, Lucy?” 

“ Mr. Brander, ma’am. He holds a meeting of colliers belonging 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


47 


to some pit at nig’ht, and he says ‘he goes to them becanse they 
wouldn’t all come to him.’ ” 

Olivia looked at her in astonishment. Here was* the little maid 
quoting with perfect confidence the clergyman’s own words. 

“But how did you pick up all this information?” 

“ Oh, one hears things, ma’am,” said Lucy, who was an inveterate 
gossip, but who did not care to own that butcher, grocer, old woman 
at the village shop, nay, even the small boy wLo brought the after- 
noon ha’porth of milk from Mrs. Briggs’, who kept a cow at the other 
end of the village, all were laid under contribution to keep her well 
informed. “And they do say. Miss Olivia, that the difference be- 
tween St. Cuthbert’s Church and this is something which must be 
seen to be believed,” she added. 

Miss Denison said nothing to this. She herself was longing to see 
St. Cuthbert’s, and would have .found out the place and gone to 
service there that very afternoon if a feeling of shyness had not re- 
strained her. Church once a day had always been enough for her 
at Streatham ; therefore it could only be curiosity which was urging 
her to break through her custom now, she said to herself. So she 
stayed at home that afternoon and wrote reluctantly enough to her 
father to tell him that everything was ready for the arrival of the 
rest of the family. If only Mrs. Denison would take it into her head 
that the air of Yorkshire was too keen for her sensitive frame, and 
would allow papa to come without her, what a happy life they two 
might lead together, thought Oliyia. She loved her easy-going 
father passionately, and as passionately resented the subjection in 
which he was kept hy his second wife ; but her utopian dream was 
not to be fulfilled^ On the Wednesday following she received a long 
letter from her step-mother, announcing that they would all arrive 
next day, and giving rambling but minute directions as to the pre- 
paration for their coming. 

Olivia put down the letter with a sigh, called Lucy, and in a dole- 
ful voice informed her that the reign of ^ace and freedom was nearly 
over. The little maid’s face fell. 

“Lor, Miss Olivia, how she will fuss and worrit, to make up for 
not having been able to get at us for a week !” was her first com- 
ment. 

“ Well, we must try to give her no cause,” said Olivia, trying to 
keep grave. 

“She’d find cause to grumble, Miss, if she was in heaven, and we 
was all angels a-flying^ about of her errands. I’ll warrant before 
she’s been in the house ten minutes she’ll take a fancy to the scullery 
for her bedroom, and say that we ought to have made this room the 
coal cellar,” said Lucy with ill-humor that was not all affected. 

There was enough truth in the girl’s comic sketch for Olivia to give 
a sigh at the prospect, though she stifled it instantly, and started 
brisklv on a tour of the house to see whether she had left any loop- 
hole for complaints on the part of her step-mother. She could find 
none. She had prepared the largest and best room for her father and 
Mrs. Denison ; the next best for the two children f the third in order 
of merit she had fitted up as a spare room, leaving only two little 
rooms scarcely larger than cupboards, the one for herself, and the 


48 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


other for her brother Ernest, on his rare visits. The two rooms in 
the wing* she left unappropriated and untouched, not from any super- 
stitious scrupfes, for she would have liked the larger one for herself ; 
but she knew if she were to take possession of it, her step-mother 
would certainly never cease “nag*ging” at her for helping herself to 
80 spacious a room. 

Thursday morning came, and Olivia rose with a doleful sense that 
the fun and the freedom of the week were nearly over. Her energies 
had found delightful vent in the unaccustomed work and responsi- 
bility ; she began to feel that even if she had been still in the old 
home at Streatnam, a contented return to lawn tennis and crewel 
work would have been impossible. Would Mrs. Denison, who was 
lazy as well as fretful, and who would now have to do without a house- 
keeper, be inclined to trust her with the reins of management ? As 
Olivia had alwavs until now been known to have the utmost horror 
of any household duties, she was not without a hope that, if she kept 
secret the change in her own feelings, Mrs. Denison might herself 
make some such proposal, being amiably anxious to make those 
around her feel as acutely as she did herself the alteration in the 
family fortunes. 

They were to arrive about six o’clock. Olivia, who was only 
anxious to see her father, would not go to meet them. She would 
get old papa all to himself in the evening, and have a long talk, and 
tell him all her adventures. He was not himself while within ran^e 
of the querulous voice and cold eyes of his second wife. Oli'^a 
thought she would have a very early dinner and a long walk to brace 
herself for her fall from autocraev, " So at two o’clock she was on the 
Sheffield Road, w^alking fast against a keen wind, under a leaden 
sky that promised snow within a few hours. She did not care for 
that. Protc'.cted by a hooded waterproof and a thick pair of boots, the 
healthy girl was quite ready to do battle with rain, snow, or wind ; 
and the object of her walk was quite interesting enough for her to 
think little of the cold. 

Olivia was going to St. Cuthbert’s. She knew where the church 
was. She had seen its dilapidated, patched-up tower, a very marvel 
of make-shift architecture, far away on the plain below her as she 
walked to Matherham by the longest and prettiest road. After walk- 
ing for about a mile ana a-half alon^ this road, which was on high 
ground and afforded a wide view of hill and plain, she had only to 
turn to the left and descend the hill by a steep and narrow lane, and 
walk on until sh 6 came to it. A feeling of shyness brought the bright 
blood to the girl’s cheeks as she turned into the lane. She hoped she 
should not meet Mr. Brander. The whisper of one of the Misses Old- 
shaw in church on Sunday had made known that it was the fashion 
among a section of the village ladies to worship him ; and Miss Deni- 
son, having alM^ays held “ curate adorers ” in stern and lofty con- 
tempt, was most anxious not to be confounded with that class. It was 
lust the time, however, when she thought an active clergyman would 
be going his rounds in the parish. 

She had indeed met no one the whole way except a lame tramp, 
who was approaching her along the Sheffield Road as she turned into 
the lane. The whole country-side seemed to be asleep except for the- 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


49 


occasional distant shriek of a railway eng'ine as it disappeared be- 
tween the hills a mile away. 

At last Olivia drew near to the church and the Vicarage, standing 
together, with no other buildings near, on a slightly rising ground in 
the centre of the plain. The Vicarage came first. It was a large, 
plain, hideous house, like a great stone box, sheltered by no ivy 
and no trees, with an uncared-for square of garden in front of it, 
and a plain stone wall all round. Only three of the windows in the 
front part of the house were curtained ; the rest were blank and 
bare, as if the place had been uninhabited. Close to the garden wall 
came the churchyard, a mildewed wilderness in which broken and 
displaced headstones had been suffered to take what positions they 
pleased, and lay flat, or stood sideways, or leaned against each other 
without hindrance. The church itself was the most extraordinary 
pile Olivia had ever seen. It 'was built of stone, and very, very old 
and ruinous. But no care, no taste, no skill had been for years 
employed in its restoration. As harm came to it from wear or 
weather, it had simply been repaired in the cheapest and speediest 
way with whatever substance came first to hand. Thus, the glass 
of one window, having been irretrievably damaged, had been re- 
placed by bricks, which filled up the blank spaces between the 
scarcely injured tracery. In the early years of the century, a storm 
had brought down the central tower, which in its fall, had crushed 
through tne roof of the south aisle, breaking through the outer wall 
and making one-third of the whole church an almost shapeless ruin. 
As that storm had left it, so through sixty years it had remained, 
with only this difference, that the shattered tower had been brought 
up to the height of a few feet above the roof with irregular layers of 
wood and brick and stone, and surmounted by a pointed roof of slate ; 
while the spaces between the arches on the southern side of the nave 
had been bricked up to form an outer wall to the church, leaving the 
ruined aisle outside, exposed to every chance of wind and weather. 
At the south-east corner, a portion of the roof, no longer either very 
solid or very safe, still kept in its place. At the soutn-west angle a 
rough hole in the ground and a dozen rude and broken steps had 
formerly led into a small crypt with a vaulted roof, which extended 
about half-way under the southern aisle ; but the opening having, 
not without reason, been declared dangerous, had been filled up, 
ten years ago, with bricks and stones and earth, over which the 
grass and weeds had now groAvn. 

The gate of the churchyard was locked ; but Olivia was not going 
to be deterred by such an obstacle from the closer inspection her 
curiosity craved. Choosing a place where the high stone wall had 
irregularities on its rough surface lar^e enough to afford a footing, 
she climbed to the top, and let herself down with a jump among the 
gravestones on the other side. The three doors of the church were 
also locked ; this she had expected. She made the tour of the build- 
ing very slowly, trying to decipher the dates on the weather-beaten 
headstones. Before she had gone half way round, the snow, which 
had been threatening all day, began to fall in lar^e flakes, so that, 
by the time she again reached the ruined aisle, Olivia was glad to 
take shelter under the remaining bit of the old roof. This formed a 


50 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


very complete place of refuge ; for a sort of inner buttress had been 
formed with some of the loose stones, which supported the remaining 
portions of wall and roof, and made the enclosed corner safe from 
wind or rain. She was debating whether it would not be wiser to 
make the best of her way hdme at once, in spite of the snow, before 
the short day began to draw in, when [she heard the key turn in the 
lock of the gate, and, peeping between the stones, saw the Reverend 
Vernon Brander enter, and, leaving the gate open behind him, dis- 
appear round the west end of the church. From his grave, stern, 
absorbed expression, Olivia guessed that he was unaware of the 
presence of another human being. In a few minutes she heard the 
rattle of the key in the lock of the north-west door of the church, and 
then Mr. Brander’s tread, on the stone floor inside. 

Olivia did not wish to see him. She decided to wait a few min- 
utes, in case he should only have gone in to fetch something ; she 
could hear him walking about, opening the ventilators of some of 
the windows, and closing those of others ; then for a few minutes she 
heard no further sound. She would escape now, while he was en- 
gaged inside. Just as she was drawing the hood over her hat, pre- 
paring for a smart walk back through the snow, she caught sight 
of another figure at the gate, whom she recogmized as the lame 
tramp she had seen near the entrance of the lane. He w^as a man 
whose age it was impossible to determine, with coarse features, and 
an expression not devoid of intelligence. He had a wooden leg and 
walkm moreover with the aid of a stick. 

Olivia was so much struck by the expression of vivid interest and 
curiosity with which he scanned every object round him, from the 
shambling tower above to the gravestones at his feet, that, instead 
of coming out from her shelter, she remained watching him, con- 
vinced that the place had some special interest for him. That inter- 
est her mind connected, with a lightning flash of vivid perception, 
with the story of Nellie Mitchell’s disappearance. The man came to- 
wards the ruined aisle, treading more slowly and cautiously with 
every step, and gradually turning his attention entirely to the ground 
on which he trod. He did not come so far as the roofed corner, but 
suddenly turned his steps back in the direction of the blocked -up en- 
trance to the crypt. Against the roughly piled stones he struck his 
stick sharply, with an abrupt exclamation in a loud and grating 
voice. 

Just at the moment he uttered this, Mr. Brander appeared round 
the western corner. His pale face turned to a livid color and his lips 
twitched convulsively at sight of the man, whom he appeared in- 
stantly to recognize. The tramp, on his side, took matters much 
more lightly. Saluting the clergymen with a touch of his cap, he 
said, in a voice which became hoarse in his endeavor to make it mys- 
terious — 

“ Eh, Maister Brander, but it’s a long time since we’ve met. 
Eleven year come next seventh of July.” 

Olivia held her breath ; the seventh of July was the date of Nel- 
lie Mitchell’s disappearance. She would have given the world to run 
away, to escape hearing what she knew must be a confession ; but 
there was no way out except by passing the two men. Brave as 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


51 


she was Olivia dared not face them. She shrank back in her corner 
and vainly tried not to hear. 


CHAPTER Vm. 


There was a long pause after the tramp had addressed Mr. Brander. 
In spite of herself, Olivia found herself at last holding her breath 
with impatience to hear the clergyman’s answer. She would not 
look at him, although through the gaps in the rough stonework she 
might easily have done so ; out her hands, with which she had at 
first tried to stop her ears, fell down at her sides. When at last he 
spoke, Mr. Brander’s voice was low and husky, affected by some 
stro^ feeling. 

“ Y^, Abel 



The blood rushed to Olivia’s face, and her cold hands stole together : 
there was something in the vicar’s voice which told so clearly or 
years of keen suffering that a great .throb of pity wrung the girl’s 
heart ; and she hoped, as eagerly as if the matter had affectea her 
personally, that this tramp would keep his secret. 

“Ay,” said Abel, in whose tones, to do him justice, there was no 
malignity. “ Ah’ve kept ma word, parson. Ah promised ye that 
neeght as Ah’d go on straight wi’out resting hereabouts. An’ on 
Ah went, and An nivver said nowt, and Ah’ve nivver been nigh t’ 
pleace from that day to this. Now that’s straight dealin’, parson, 
arn’t it ?” 

“ Yes, Abel ; I always knew you for a straight man.” 

Mr. Brander spoke gravely and appreciatively, but there was 
no undue humility in his tone, as of a man demanding mercy. Abel 
resumed. 

“ Ay, parson, so I be. Ah’m not mooch of a Christian, as tha 
V knaws, an’ if so be a mon treats ma ill, Ah loike to be even wi’ him. 
But if so be a mon treats ma fair. Ah treat him fair beck. An’ tha’s 
treated ma more nor fair, parson, mony’s the time. An’ so, when 
tha says, ‘ Shut tha mooth an’ mak’ nae guesses, ’Ah shuts mamooth, 
an’ Ah doah’t guess nowt.” 

“ What brings you here now, then?” asked Mr. Brander, abruptly, 
with perceptible anxiety in his tone. 

“ Weel, parson, tha knaws Ah wur born and bred hereaboots. An’ 
though Ah been fond o’ trampin’ it i’ ma time, Ah’m not so spry- 
like as Ah wur, an’ Ah’d like to settle in t’ pleace where Ah wur 
bred.” 

“ You’ve saved some money, then ?” asked Mr. Brander as sharply 
as before. 

“ Not so mooch, not so mooch, mester, but Ah doan’t count to end 
ma days in an eight-roomed villa, like t’ gentlefowk.” 

There was a pause, and then the vicar spoke in a constrained tone, 
in which the effort to repress some strong feeling was more manifest 
than ever. 

“ And if I ask you not to settle here, Abel, but to pitch your tent 
for the remainder of your days somewhere else, what would you do? 


52 


ST. outhbert’s tower. 


Come, I don’t want to throw in your face what I’ve done for you, hut 
what would you do ?” 

Olivia heard the man clearing* his throat undecidedly, and kicking* 
with his wooden leg* against the gravestones. 

“ You doan’t trust ma, parson, an’ it’s a bit hard, after howdin’ ma 
tongue nigh eleven year. Eh, but if Ah’d wanted to ha’ spoke, wadn’t 
Ah ha’ spoke afore now ?” 

“ If you had wanted to speak about the business, I should never 
have wasted my breath asking you not to,” said Mr. Brander with 
decision. “I trust you, Abel, as much as one man may trust an- 
other. But judging you as I should jud^e myself, I say it would 
be impossible for you to live in this neighborhood, where that night’s 
occurrences are still continually being raked up and discussed, with- 
out its leaking out that you were here on that night, and that you 
met me. That, as you l^now, I wish to keep secret. ” 

“ But, parson y” began the man slowly, in a troubled tone 

Mr. Brander interrupted him. 

“ Now we’ve nothing further to discuss, Abel. I want the whole 
story forgotten.” 

“"But it’s not a whole story, Mester' Brander, an’ that’s why it 
nivver will be forgotten. It’s a mystery to all but — to ivverybody ; 
an’ until t’ fowk knaw what become o’ Nellie Mitchell, a mystery 
it’ll be, an’ they’ll talk aboot it. Why, parson, dost knaw t’ tales as 
goes round?” 

“ What do tales matter as long as they are only idle ones?” said 
Mr. Brander, hastily. “Now, Abel Squires, which is it to be? Is 
the parson to have his way, or has he been wasting* his breath ?” 

“ He maun ha’ his way. Ah reckon : but Ah tell thee, parson, it’s 
all no use. It’ll be none o’ ma doin’, but— murder will oot, tha 
knaws.” 

He dropped his voice to a low, portentous whisper for the last 
words. 

“ Murder !” echoed Mr. Blander, also in a low voice. “ What are 
you talking abont ? Didn’t I tell you it was not murder ?” 

“ Ay, that tha did,” said Abel, rather drily. 

“ And did you see anything?” 

“ Weel, not that neeght, but next day ” 

“Ah !” ejaculated Mr. Brander, sharply. “ Then you didn’t keep 
your word ; you didn’t go straight on !” " 

The man’s answer came deliberately. 

“Ah went straight on that neeght, mester, as Ah towd tha Ah 
would. But Ah coom back next mornin’. It wur only human 
natur’ ; an’ Ah took a look round. Ay ! parson. Ah hid summat as 
would ha towd a tale.” 

“What was that?” asked Mr. Brander, slowly, and, as it seemed, 
with dihiculty. 

“There wur marks on those steps down to t’ crypt as is now 
blocked oop. An’ down at t’ bottom. An’ Ah tramped ’em oot. An’ 
there war marks in other pleace as Ah made away. An’ it wur all 
for ye, parson, for Ah thowt of what ye’d done for ma when Ah wur 
ill and nobody to care for ma, an’ Ah did what Ah could.” 

“You’re a good fellow, Abel,” said Mr. Brander, huskily, after a 
few moments’ pause. “ And you’ve been a good friend to me.” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 53 

** Ah, Mester Brander, but Ah’d ha’ liked to ha’ served ye a better 
w^,” said the man, who seemed affected in his turn. 

The vicar silenced him with a peremptory “Sh-sh.” Then he 
said — 

“ You won’t be able to get far to-night on foot. It will be snowing 
heavily in an hour from now. You must get home by train to- 
night.” 

Olivia guessed that he must have put money into the man’s hand, 
for Abel Squires answered reluctantly — 

“Ahdoan’t tak’ it for howding ma tongue, parson. But if ye 
want ma to go further, it’s but fair ye should pay for it. Here’s 
good-day to you, sir, and may you nivver”- 

The voices were growing fainter. Olivia peeped between the 
stones for the first time, and saw that the oddly assorted couple were 
making their way among the ruined gravestones to the gate, where 
the vicar shook hands with the tramp, who went back up the lane 
towards the Sheffield road as fast as his wooden leg would let him. 
Mr. Brander stood at the gate until long after Abel had disappeared 
from sight at a bend of the lane. His back was towards Olivia, and 
all that she could see was that he remained extraordinarily still. 
The snow, which from a few feathery flakes had gradually thickened 
into a blinding storm, grew at last so dense that no mental abstrac- 
tion could shut it out. The vicar suddenly threw back his head, and 
apparently taking in the fact that he was getting wet through, gave 
himself a violent shake to get rid of the white covering whicn al- 
ready enveloped him, turn^ and walked rapidly back to the church. 

As soon as Olivia heard the rattle of the lock, she sprang out of 
her shelter, struggling with her umbrella as she went, hurried over 
the uneven ground within the ruined aisle, where a few minutes be- 
fore Mr. Brander and the tramp had been standing, and steering 
rapidly and neatly between the broken and scattered tombstones, 
reached the gate in very few seconds. As she flitted quickly through, 
however, a gust of wind blew the skirt of her waterproof against the 
bars of the gate, which swung to behind her with a loud creaking 
noise. She ran on, and in a minute was out of sight to any one at 
the church door, hidden by the churchyard wall. But Mr. Brander, 
hearing the noise, and being naturally rather startled by the idea 
that some one had been about during his very private conversation 
with Squires, was too quick for her. He was out of the church and 
on the track of the intruder before she had got many steps up the 
lane. She was just past the bend when he suddenly came up with 
her. One umbrellaed and waterproofed woman in a snowstorm is so 
like another that he had not the slightest idea who his quarry was 
until he had passed her and turned to look back. As he did so he 
caught sight of her face, and instantly stopped. 

Olivia stopped too, and holding back her umbrella, met his glance 
with a frank, straight gaze. He raised his hat, seemed about to 
speak to her, but hesitated. She smiled and held out her hand. He 
saw at once that this was not the ordinary greeting of an acquain- 
tance she was tendering him. The muscles about her mouth were 
quivering, and her eyes, as they met his for a moment before drop- 
ping modestly, were luminous with generous feeling, maidenly 


54 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


shame stnig’g'ling* with womanly sympathy. Mr. Brander took her 
hand with some constraint. As he touched it, however, something 
in the firm clasp of the girl’s fingers gave him confidence. 

“Miss Denison,” he said, gravely, while his keen black eyes 
seemed to read the thoughts in her brain before they were uttered, 
“ ynu have been in the churchyard. AVhere were you ? ” 

The blood, which was already crimson in Olivia’s cheeks, mounted 
to her forehead, until her whole face was aglow. Her eyes fell, and 
it was in a low, almost faltering, voice that she ariswered. 

“ I was in the ruined part of the church — where the roof is left.” 

Mr. Brander was startled by this confession. He did not at once 
s^ak, being evidently occupied in trying to recall the very words 
of the conversation she must have overheard. But he soon gave up 
that attempt, and asked, impatiently — 

“ Then you heard — what ? ” 

Olivia’s breath come almost in sobs, as she answered at once, with 
bent head, and almost in a whisper — 

“ I heard nearly all you said — you and the man. I am very, very 
sorry and ashamed, and I ask your pardon. But I did not dare to 
come out while you were there. I hoped to get away without your 
seeing me.” 

‘ ‘ But what did I say ? What did he say ? What did you under- 
stand by it all ? ” ask^ he, so eagerly that he almost seemed to be 
bullying her. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. Pray don’t ask me. I don’t want to remem- 
ber. I would rather forget it all. I never meant that a word about 
it should pass my lips, and it will not after this,” said she, hurriedly 
without looking up. 

Mr. Brander said nothing to this at first, and Olivia, raising her 
head to steal a look at his face, judged by his expression that he was 
in the throes of some terrible mental struggle, the outcome of which 
would be some passionate outburst. But he recovered command of 
himself, and when he at last spoke to her, it was in a very quiet 
voice. 

“ I am keeping you standing in the snow. Miss Denison ; I must 
not do that. But we must come to a word of understanding now ; it 
will put us on a right footing for the future.” 

“You need not say another word to me, Mr. Brander,” interrupted 
Olivia, vehemently. “The understanding between us is clear 
enough ; you are a most warmhearted gentleman, and have shown 
me more aelicate kindness than I ever received in my life ; I am, and 
shall be as long as you let me, your grateful friend. What under- 
standing do you want more than that ?” 

Her clear young voice rang out with enthusiastic warmth, which 
threw the clergyman otf his balance. He began to tremble like a 
leaf, and again his thin, mobile face showed signs of the emotion 
within him. But he still kept it under restraint, and spoke in a per- 
fectly steady voice. 

‘ ‘ Thank you ; I expected generosity from you. But— do you quite 
understand the position I am in, I wonder? Did you understand 
man— that tramp— is keeping a secret for me ?” 

Yeg,” answered Olivia, steadily. 


8T. CUTHBEET’S TOWEE. 


. 55 


“ And you are aware of its nature?” 

The girl drew a deep breath, but she answered bravely, though in 
a low voice, “ Yes.” 

“And after that, and after hearing everything that you have 
heard, that you must have heard, about this miserable story, you 
still are ready to call yourself — my friend ?” 

He kept his voice at the same quiet pitch, but on the last two words 
it broke a little. There was a pause or only a few seconds. 

Then Olivia answered in a veritable whiter, but with the same 
sweet and dignified seriousness, “Yes, Mr. Brander.” 

She might reasonably have expected some acknowledgement of 
the gracious, womanly daring- of this speech ; but instead of giving 
any sign of gratitude, Mr. Brander, to her astonishment, turned upon 
Ver quite sharply. 

“Well, that’s quixotic, illogical, pretty perhaps from a boarding- 
school young lady’s point of view, but not worthy of a woman of 
sense.” 

Olivia was surprised, but she was true woman enough to have her 
answer. 

“ I think I can justify it,” she said, holding her head back rather 
obstinately. 

“Very well. Justify yourself for being ready to make friends 
with a man believed to have committed a very atrocious and coward- 
ly murder.” 

Olivia looked at him full and earnestly. 

“ I don’t believe ” she began, doubtfully. 

“ You don’t believe what ?” 

“That you— ever — did it.” 

“ Because I have the assurance to take the bull by the horns, way- 
lay you, and insist upon coming to an explanation?” 

“ No— 0, not because of that.” 

“Why then?” 

Olivia continued to gaze at him as solemnly as if she had been a 
judge passing sentence. 

“ It is very difficult to say quite why,” she began, deliberately. 
“They say women hardly ever can say why they believe a thing.” 

“ Is that all your answer?” 

“No,” she replied rather sharplv, beginning to be a little annoyed 
at the irony in his tone. “ They have never proved it, for one thing 
although they tried. And— how can a man have changed so in ten 

vears ?” ^ ^ 

“ “The first is a reason ; the other is not. But you have just seen 
with your own eves the only witness to my actions on that ni^ht, 
and heard with your own ears that he has not been in the neighbor- 
hood since.” 

Olivia assented. , . ^ 

“Then you say, ‘ How can a man have changed so much in ten 
years?’ But I tell you I have changed so much in that time that, 
except for externals, I might pass for a different man. Now what 
becomes of your reasons for thinking me innocent ?” 

“ I will believe you did it if you tell me so, of course,” said Olivia 
quietly. 


56 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


And what then ?” 

“What then? I shall be sorry again, and puzzled.” 

“ And you will withdraw all those pretty professions of friend- 
ship?” 

Olivia debated with herself for a few moments only. Then she 
answered, vehemently, in a strong voice — 

“ No. You were my friend— a very good friend too — before I heard 
anything against you. You were good to us, as I hear you are 
good to everybody. When you met that man in the churchvard 

i ust now, you spoke like a brave man, and not like a coward. I 
lear from every one about the noble, self-denying life you lead. If 
you didn’t do it you are almost a martyr ; if — if you aid, you are 
expiating what you did in a manner which justifies our respect. Now 
if you call these women’s reasons, I don’t care ; they are good enough 
for me, Mr. Brander.” 

“ And for me, too. Miss Denison. I ” 

He tried to keep his voice under proper command. But educated 
to self-control by long years as he was, he gave way under the un- 
expected rush of warm and generous feeling. A choking in his 
throat checked his utterance : his keen eyes grew moist and dim. 
He saw, as in a mist, a hand held out to him, and seizing it, he wrung 
it in a pressure which made Olivia wince. 

“ Look here,” he said at last, in a voice still husky, while he con- 
tinued to hold her fingers in a strong nervous clasp ; “ I have nothing 
to say to you ; no confession, no explanation, nothing. But you are 
a grand girl— a grand girl.” 

He released her hand suddenly, as if with an effort, and then at 
once struggled into his usual manner. 

“ You’re half frozen with standing in the cold (a very just penalty 
for eavesdropping, by the way), and you’ll be half buried before you 
get back. I must see you home.” 

“ Oh, no, indeed, I’m not going to drag you all that way on a day 
like this.” 

“ But I choose to be dragged. You rash young woman, accus- 
tomed to the peaceful security of Streatham ; you must learn that it 
is not safe for a young lady to tramp about this part of the world 
alone so late in the day.” 

“ But it’s not late.” 

“ It will be dark before you get home. Go on up the hill, and I will 
fetch my mackintosh and overtake you.” 

He went into his bare-looking house while Olivia tramped on 
obediently. She had not noticed, until then, how thicklv the snow- 
flakes were falling, nor how the gloom of the leaden sky was deepen- 
ing. Now, too, she became aware, for the first time, that her jaws 
were stiff, and her hands and feet bitterly cold ; for the interview 
with Mr. Brander had been too exciting to allow her to notice these 
things. He overtook her in a very few minutes, and walked by her 
side, conversing on different topics, until that scene by the church- 
yard scarcely seemed a reality. They passed only one person, a 
rough-looking collier of unsteady gait, whom Mr. Brander made use 
of to point a moral. 

“Now, is that the sort of person you would care to meet if you 
were alone ?*’ he asked. 


ST. cuthbert’s toweb. 


57 


** 1 sliOTildn’t have "been afraid of him,” answered Olivia. 

“ No.; if he had been sober he would have been vastly afraid of 
you , and of most girls I should say. So he is when he’s drunk. But 
your courage doesn’t want stimulating ; it wants repressing. For I 
tell you my collier bovs are good lads in the main, but there are 
black sheep amon^ them as among other folk, and you mustn’t 
risk falling in with one towards nightfall on a lonely road. Do you 
hear ?” 

He spoke with playful peremptoriness, but Olivia understood that 
he was giving a serious warning, which she promised to heed. He 
went on talking about the colliers, who formed the bulk of the in- 
habitants of his scattered parish, with affectionate interest which 
awakened a sympathetic curiosity in her, until they reached the inn 
at the entrance of Rishton village. Mr. Brander had grown so warm 
over what Olivia afterwards discovered to be his favorite subject that, 
quite unconsciously, his steps, and consequently hers, haa grown 
slower and slower, while his voice grew more and more eager until 
a passer-by would have taken them for a pair of lovers reluctant to 
separate. They had come to a complete standstill in the farmyard 
by the corner of the house, when they heard the opening of the front 
door, a man’s footstep, and then a woman’s strong shrill voice ” 

“ It’s no use looking for her, Charles. She woirt be in yet. Olivia 
never did care a straw for your comfort or for mine.” 

Olivia turned to Mr. Brander, and held out her hand with a dole- 
ful shake of the head- 

“ There” she said, “isn’t that more eloquent than the longest 
description ? There’ll be an end to everything now she’s come !” 

Fortunately it had grown by this time so dark that under her um- 
brella the hot blushes which mounted to Olivia’s cheeks as soon as this 
speech had escaped her lips could not be seen. Giving Mr. Bran- 
der her hand very hastily, and not leaving him time for something, 
he half hesitated, but wanted to say, she turned, and with a hasty 
“ Good-bye ; thank you very much for coming,” ran round towards 
the front of the house. 


CHAPTER IX. 

When Olivia had come as near as she could to the porch without be- 
ing seen from thence, she stopped, in the hope that Mrs. Denison, who 
was still grumbling at her step-daughter’s non-appearance, would go 
indoors, and give her a chance of enveloping her father in a warm 
hug, and of snatching a stolen interview with him unknown to the 
ruling powers. 

In a few moments, to the girl’s great delight, Mrs. Denison said, 
impatiently, “Well, I can’t stand here in the snow, just because 
your daughter chooses to insult me by absenting herself when I 
am expected.” . • 

“My dear, my dear,” expostulated papa’s mild tones, “Olivia is 
the best creature in the world. She wouldn’t think of insulting you 
or anybody. But how could she guess that we should come by an 
earlier train than the one we said 


68 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ Well, I’m not g“oin^ to catch cold even for the' best creature in 
the world, and I should advise you not to either. Are you coming 
in?” 

“ Not directly, I think, my dear. I want a little air after that 
stuffy railway carriage. And really, you know, those children do 
quarrel so ” 

“ If you want to go hunting for Olivia, say so ; but don’t put it 
down to the poor children,” said Mrs. Denison. 

And she went indoors, shutting the door with a nearer approach to 
a “slam” than etiquette prescribes for a lady. 

No sooner was she safely inside than Olivia crept along under the 
lea of the house wall, and springing up the worn steps at a bound, 
flung down her umbrella, and threw her arms round her father’s 
neck like a hungry young bear. 

“ Good gracious, my dear, you’re quite wet and as cold as ice. 
You must come inside and warm yourself.” 

“ Oh, no, dear old papa— poor old papa ; it’s warmer here outside. 
With Beatrix and Regie fighting, and mamma at freezing point, 
the place must be ” 

“Now you’ve been listening ; that isn’t right.” 

“ Yes, I have — all the afternoon — taking in all the private conver- 
sations I could get near enough to overhear. I find it grows upon 
one. But 1 can always tell vmat temper Mrs. Denison is in without 
any listening.” 

“ Now, Olivia, I won’t hear that. Your step-mother is the best of 
women ” 

“ Yes, papa, I know,” said Olivia, nodding gravely. 

Indeed she had heard that sentiment many scores of times, and she 
supposed that bv constant repetition her good-natured father hoped to 
persuade himself that it was true. 

“And Regie and Beatrix are the best of children, aren’t they, old 
papa?” she asked, gravelv. 

He was quite distressed at not being able to reply truthfully in the 
affirmative. 

“ Well,” he said, “I’m sure they would be. Only somehow, I 
don’t know how it is, they seem to get a little too much indulged, I 
think.” 

“ Perhaps thev do. I think they want a little more of your iron 
rule, pana,” said Olivia, who was -hanging on to his arm, lovingly 
patting nis cheek and turning up his coat collar and lavishing upon 
him all the caressing little attentions he loved from his adored daugh- 
ter’s hands. 

He began to laugh ; her liveliness and demonstrative affection were 
dispelling the gloomy forebodings which had hung upon him all day 
on the entrance to this new and untried life. 


“ You don’t treat me with proper respect, Olivia. If you are going 
to be impudent. I shall take you indoors and get Mrs. I)enison to talk 
to you.” 

“ What mortal man may dare, you dare ; but you don’t dare that,” 
said his daughter, saucily. “ Don’t you want to know how I’ve got 
on here all by myself ?” 

“ Yes, but I’m" afraid you’ll catch cold?” 


ST. outhbert’s tower. 


59 


No, I shan’t. The excitement of this stolen meeting* with the 
king* of my heart will keep me warm. Besides, we’ll go in directly. 
Only when we do, you know what it will be. Nag, nag— oh, no, I 
forgot ; that word is tabooed. I should say orate, orate, until all the 
ills that flesh is heir fo have been exhausted.” 

“What were you doing out on a day like this ? You hadn’t gone 
to meet us, had you ?” 

“ No-o, I hadn’t. I’d been to look at a church.” 

“ That means that you’ve fallen in love with a parson.” 

“ Papa, papa, how can you say such things of me, too?” 

“ Why, my dear child, I only spoke in fun. You don’t really sup- 
pose I thought sb meanly of you as that?” 

Olivia laughed with some constraint. If her father, who already 
had a prejudice against the clergy, should hear the rumors about 
poor Mr. Brander, nothing, short of entreaties which she would be 
ashamed to use, would inauce him to allow her to exchange another 
word with the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s. And, in a neighborhood where 
the social attractions were so few as at Pishton, the loss of an ac- 
quaintance capable of intelligent conversation w^as a serious one. 
She grew silent, and beginning to feel conscious of the cold, 
shivered. Her father instantly opened the door and led her into the 
house. He could hear his wife’s powerful voice as she chatted with 
one of the servants in the dining-room. Mrs. Denison was one of those 
women who conflde much in their servants, without extracting any 
confidence worth having in return. She dropped into a stony silence 
as her husband and his daughter entered ; for there was a feud, 
generally covert but none the less real, between the two ladies. 

Mrs. Denison was a woman of about thirty-five, of the middle 
height, somewhat thick set, with a cold face, which was not ill look- 
ing, though she had never been strictly handsome. She drew her- 
self up, with a displeased expression, in the arm chair she occupied 
by the fire ; and Olivia knew that her efforts to make the house com- 
fortable had not met with the approval of its mistress. The girl 
walked the whole Length of the long room with a rather rebellious 
feeling in her heart, which she tried to subdue, and held out her 
hand with the best grace she could. 

“How do you do, mamma ? I hope you had a pleasant journey,” 
she said, cordially. 

Mrs. Denison gave her finger tips, and looked at her with cold 
eyes. 

“ Quite as well as I could expect, thank you, knowing what I had 
to look forward to.” 

“ I hope you don’t dislike the new home already.” . 

“ Oh, when it begins to look at all like ‘ home,’ I daresay it will 
be bearable enough ; but there is at least a fortnight’s hard work for 
me before that can happen.” 

Olivia’s face changed, and began to look proud and mutinous. Mr. 
Denison rushed into the breach. 

“Come, come, Susan, I don’t think you are quite fair to poor 
Olivia. Remember, it’s hard work for a girl, arranging a big house 
like this. I think she has done very well indeed.” 

“ You must allow me, Edward, to know what I am talking about,” 


60 


fiT. cuthbert’s tower. 


said his wife ; while Regie and Beatrix, who had been quarrelling 
silently but viciously in a corner, scenting something in a possible 
discussion among their elders, came to an abrupt truce and listened 
eagerly. “I think I ought to understand the arrangement of a 
house by this time. ” 

“ Jt is a pity, Mrs. Denison, that you could not have spared Lucy 
and me a week of discomfort and hard work by coming here first 
yourself,'’ said Olivia, whose quick temper was seldom proof against 
ner step-mother’s attacks. “I never doubted that we should fail to 
please you, but you might give us the credit of having tried.” 

“Why, what’s the matter, Susan? What have you to find fault 
with ?” asked Mr. Denison. His easy-going nature made him averse 
from interfering in any discussion ; but he had suffered so much 
self-reproach for allowing his daughter to come to Rishton by her- 
self that he felt impelled to dare a word in her -behalf. “ Hasn’t she 
made the place very comfortable ?” 

“ She has at least taken care that she herself shall be very com- 
fortable,” said Mrs. Denison, in her most disagreeable tone. 

“Will you please tell me how I have done that ?” asked Olivia, in 
a very low voice. 

She was afraid lest her self-control should leave her, and the dis- 
cussion assume the vulgar aspect of a quarrel between two angry 
women. For, blame herself for it as she might, she was angry as 
well as hurt. 

“By consulting nobody’s convenience but your own in your 
choice of a room for yourself,” said Mrs. Denison, sharply. 

“My bedroom !” cried the girl with unfeigned surprise. “ Why, 
what other could I have chosen ? It is the smallest in this side of 
the house, except papa’s dressing-room !” 

“ It is the only one that I could possibly make into a boudoir for 
myself. I don’t know whether you expect me to g'ive up all the little 
comforts and refinements of a lady.” 

This speech grated on the ears of both Olivia and her father. Mr. 
Denison, after ten years of b^s second marriage, was by no means so 
absorbed by marital devotiofi as to ignore the descent he had made 
in taking for his second wife a woman scarcely refined enough to 
have been maid to his first. Being a man of affectionate tempera- 
ment, fond of home, and sensitively grateful for kindness real or 
supposed, it was natural that in his keen sorrow at his first wife’s 
death, he should fall a prey to the first woman, near at hand, who 
should find it worth her while to capture him. This, in the natural 
course of things, proved to be his daughter’s governess. 

The clever, superficially educated daughter of a small provincial 
shopkeeper, the second Mrs. Denison, on her elevation to a rank 
above her birth, was determined to avail herself to the full of every 

f )rivilege to which her new station entitled her. One of these privi- 
eges she conceived to be the possession of a “ boudoir,” though what 
the precise significance of it was to her it was not easy to see, as she 
entered it very rarely, while the whole house was not large enough 
for her to “sulk” in. But in overlooking this necessity of her 
station, Mrs. Denison chose to consider that Olivia had wished to put 
upon her a slight of the kind she could least brook, and no pains the 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 61 

^irl had taken in other directions could induce her to overlook the 
indig’iiity. 

A^ain Mr, Denison, with unusual rashness, stepped in. 

“My dear Susan,” he expostulated, “ Olivia must have a 
room to sleep in. And there must be a spare room kept for Earnest. 
Where else could she stow herself 

“There are two g'ood rooms in the wing ’’began Mrs. Deni- 

son. 

“But, my dear, they are damp and full of mouldy old thing's 
that ” 

He was interrupted in his turn by his daughter. 

“ I haven’t the least objection to sleeping in the wing, papa. I left 
those rooms untouched for Mrs. Denison to decide what she would 
have done with them. I will take the large room with pleasure, 
mouldy old things and all.” 

In truth, Olivia was pleased with this arrangement, and she took 
possession of the room which had once been Ellen Mitchell’s with 
alacrity which she did her best to hide from her step-mother. No- 
body had told Mrs. Denison the story about those two rooms ; but 
their decayed and desolate appearance had inspired her with a strong 
prejudice against them, so that Olivia was allowed to keep not onlv 
the bedroom but the outer room as well for her own use. Mr. Deni- 
son was strongly opposed to the idea of his beautiful daughter sleep- 
ing away from the rest of the household in what he called “a 
wretched old rat run.” But as the two feminine wills were both 
against his, he could do nothing but stipulate emphatically that 
fires were to be kept up in both rooms throughout the winter. His 
wife demurred at the expense, but on this point he was firm, and 
had his own way. 

In the jarring family life which the Denison household led under 
the presidency of the second wife, Olivia found a great relief in be- 
ing able to shut herself up in her wing, away from all discordant 
elements, even though the atmosphere of these two rooms remained 
to the end heavy with the trag’edy of their last occupant. That 
tragedy the young girl'grew more and more anxious fully to know 
about ; so she turned over the leaves of the old books, and read a^ain 
the inscription in faded ink in the old prayer book ; “Ellen Mitchell, 
from her affectionate brother Ned.” What had become of “Ned?” 
Did the “ affectionate brother” know that his sister had been spirited 
away, leaving no trace ? These were conjectures which often passed 
through Olivia’s mind as she sat down for a lazy half hour by her 
fire at bedtime. 

This half hour was now the only idle time in Olivia’s day. Like 
many other idle English girls, she had only wanted something to do to 
develop the most dashing energy ; and as Mrs. Denison was too much 
enervated by long years of laziness to care for the trouble of house- 
keeping, Olivia flung herself with ardor into these new duties, and 
found in them that necessary outlet for her energies which she had 
previouslv sought in lawn tennis. 

The whole family had been settled at Rishton Hall a week, and 
Mrs. Denison had begun bitterly to complain that nobody had called 
upon her, when one afternoon, while Olivia was busy in the dining- 


62 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


room with the children’s clothes, and her step-mother was shut up in 
her boudoir with a novels a carriag’e drove up to the door, and a foot- 
man, descending from the box, ^ave such a thundering knock as 
made the old door creak on its hinges. Olivia could just see from 
where she sat that the carriage was very large, that the footman 
was verv tall, and that the horses were showy animals, their heads 
held well back with the bearing rein. That was enough for her. 
She loved horses, and the bearing rein was an abomination in her 


eyes. 

“ Those parvenus!” she said to herself, haughtily. 

And when Lucy came to announce that Mrs. and Miss and Mr. 
Frederick Williams were in the drawing-room, she said, briefly, “Tell 
Mrs. Denison, Lucy,” without looking up, or pausing in her work. 

She knew this was wrong. She knew that she ought to ^^o and en- 
tertain the visitors during the ten minutes which Mrs. Denison would 
certainly devote to self -adornment before going down to the drawing- 
room. Dut, besides that she felt, in her new burst of house-manag- 
ing fervor, the giving and receiving of visits to be a frivolity, Olivia 
was resolved not to cultivate any intimacy with the family of the 
odious Frederick. So she worked on, feeling guilty but defiant, 
until she heard Mrs. Denison’s hea^y and pompous tread upon the 
stairs. A few minutes later, the drawing-room door opened again, 
and Olivia heard the whole party come out to be shown over the 
house. 

“You shall see what I have made of the upstairs rooms first,” said 
Mrs. Denison’s voice, “and make the acquaintanceof my cherubs.” 

And to Olivia’s delight, they streamed upstairs towards the room 
where the cherubs could be distinctly heard screaming with all their 
might. She gave a sigh of relief at this respite, and was turning 
over a small stocking on her hand to see what mending it needed, 
when there came a little, timid, hesitating knock at the door. 

“ Come in,” said she, feeling instantly sure the knock was that of 
a complete stranger. 

The door was opened by the pleasant-looking lady whom Olivia 
had noticed in church. She had a diffident blush on her face, and a 
deprecating smile, which made her look pleasanter than ever. Olivia 
rose, and the lady hurried forward. 

“ No, don’t get up. Don’t make me feel I’ve disturbed you,” she 
entreated. “I know I’ve taken a dreadful liberty, but I caught 
sight of you in here as we came in, and I’m so devouring- 
ly anxious to know you that when Mrs. Denison offered to take 
us all upstairs, I slippM behind to try to get a peep at you.” 

Olivia was disarmed. Miss Williams took a chair beside her, and 
looked with interest at the work in her hand. 

“ I could show you such a much better way of mending that heel 
if you’d let me,” she said, almost with eagerness. 

“Oh, if you’re what they call ‘clever with your needle’ I musn’t 
work before you,” said the girl, smiling, “ I’m only a beginner at 


_ - everything: 

and unless I learn to give real help in the house— not mere amateur- 


ST. outhbert’s tower. 


63 


ish dabbling, yon know— half the things that ought to be done will 
be left undone.” 

Miss Williams’ gloves were off, and she was already bus^y with the 
small stocking. Olivia was astonished to notice that the quick, clever 
fingers bore distinct traces, both in shape and texture, of former hard 
work. The elder lady glanced up, caught the girl’s eyes, and 
blushed. 

“ Yes,” she said, smiling, and as if telling a secret, “you would be 
astonished if I were to tell you of all the work these hands have done 
in their time. Now that my father has got on, and married a lady, 
all that has to be forgotten. But, oh ! if the servants knew, when I 
tell them the hall has not been properly scrubbed, how I long to be 
down on my knees doing it myself !” 

She was in earnest, but there was such a twinkle of fun in her eves 
that Olivia, who liked her more and more every minute, joined ner 
in a burst of laughter. Then Olivia remembered that there was a 
bond of union betwen them, and she said, in a confidential tone — 

“You have a step-mother too, then?” 

“Yes, and no. Mrs. Williams is my father’s second wife, and I 
am the child of his first. My own mother was ’’—she looked round 
her with mock mystery — “a factory lass. And— and so was I till I 
was fourteen. Then my father made a discovery, and began to grow 
rich and ambitious. And my mother died— perhaps luckily for her, 
poor thin^— and he buried her and the old life together. But he 
could not bury me, you know ; and if the lady he then married had 
not had the sweetest disposition in the world, it might have fared ill 
with me. But she is a kind creature, and she made my civilization 
as little irksome to me . as possible. And that is why step-mother 
doesn’t seem the right name for her ; and there is all my autobio- 
graphy.” 

All the time her busy fingers were making the needle fly through 
the stocking with a deftness absolutely bewildering to Olivia. 

“ You are luckier than I have been,” said the young girl, in a low 
voice. 

Miss Williams looked up again, her eyes beaming with sympa- 
thetic intelligence. 

“ Yes, I could see that. My father married up for the second time, 
while yours ” 

“ Married down. Yes, down in everyway; that’s the worst of 
it ; temper, manners, everything. If she had been different, I should 
not have minded growing poorer in the least, but it is tiresome to be 
thrown so much on her society.” 

“Yes, there are absolutely no suitable friends about here for 
you.” 

“Well,” said Olivia, laughing, blushing, and hesitating. “I 
thought so till ten minutes ago.” 

Miss Williams in her turn flushed with pleasure. But then she 
shook her head. , , ^ 

“ You might put up with me perhaps, though I am much too old 
for you. But my half brother ! You have met him, and snubbed 
him, I think, because he is always raving about your beauty 
and spirit. But if so, you certainly do not want to meet him 
again.” 


u 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


Indeed I don’t,” answered the g*irl, laughing-. 

“We might perhaps find a common meeting ground at the Vicar- 
age after next week, when the vicar comes back. But I don’t know 
how you will like Mrs. Brander,” she added, very dubiously. 

“ Isn’t she nice?” asked Olivia, with great interest. 

“ Oh, yes, she’s very nice, and very nandsome, and— and straight- 
forward, and— and looked up to. She quite leads the fashions here, you 
know, and starts everything. She is not at all like the ordinary hum- 
drum vicar’s wife. But ” 

“Well?” 

“ I don’t want to talk scandal, but you must hear all the standing- 
gossip, and you may as well hear it without venom. People talk 
about her and her husband’s brother ” 

“Mr. Vernon Brander?” 

“Yes.” 

“ He told me himself he had been in love with her before she mar- 
ried,” said Olivia, warmly. 

Miss Williams gave a quick glance at her face, making the girl 
blush. 

“Yes, but, well, people have seen her going in and out of his 
house since, and late, very late in the evening. I should not have 
told you these things, only they must make a difference in the 
way one looks upon people.” 

“ From your manner towards Mr. Vernon Brander, I shouldn’t 
have thought they made any difference,” said Olivia, who was much 
excited. 

“ Ah, that is the privilege of being an old maid,” answered Miss 
Williams, very quietly. “ I can do without fear what a young girl 
cannot do— make friends with a black sheep.” 

Olivia started. “ Do you think he is guilty, then ?” she asked in a 
startled whisper. 

Miss Williams, who had risen, looked very grave. 

“ Of the other charge ? I don’t know. I would give my right 
hand to know that it was not so. For I am so much interested in 
him— I may even say, so fond of him. I know, from what he has 
told me, that his inner life is one long storm, one long struggle. But, 
why doesn’t he clear himself if he can ? To an old friend like me 
three words would be enough.” 

“ Then you believe ” 

“ Why does he accept the position ? Why does he come to me, and 
ask me to do what I can to help you in your loneliness ?” 

Olivia looked up. 

“That iswhat hedidlast Sundajr,” continued Miss Williams. “And 
he alluded to ‘ his unfortunate position ’ as putting a barrier between 
vou and any wish he might have to assist you. Why should 
he speak like that if he knew himself to be innocent of either 
charge ?’* 

Olivia was silent. She did not care to let the other lady see how 
deeply this matter affected her. She was, indeed, surprised at the 
keenness of her own feeling. It was a great relief to her that at 
that moment voices were heard at the top of the staircase, and Miss 
Williams jumped up, saying that she would have to excuse herself 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


65 


for playing truant. Olivia shook hands with her almost mechani- 
cally, and promised to go to see her without knowing what she said. 
As soon as she was left alone, the young girl abandoned her work, 
and sat staring before her in most unusual idleness. One sentence 
was ringing in her ears : 

“ Why didn’t he clear himself if he could?” 

And to this question it was impossible to suggest an answer. 


CHAPTER X. 

Any one who could have seen into the workings of Olivia D(?iiisoii’s 
heart and mind when she was left to herself would probably have 
pronounced her to be “ in love ” with the Reverend Vernon Brander. 
This was not quite true. She did indeed feel a very strong interest 
in the hermit vicar and his mysterious history ; and such interest in 
a young girl’s mind cannot exist quite apart from sentiment. But, 
then, the sentiments awakened by the overheard interview in the 
churchyard and by Miss Williams’ suggestions were so largely 
ming’led with doubt, disgust, and horror, that on the whole she felt 
she would infinitely prefer, in spite of his kindness, never to meet 
him again. She felt very thankful, however, as the days went by, 
that no story and no rumors about the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s 
reached Mrs. Denison’s ears. That lad v was too much wrapt up in 
herself to trouble herself much about Iier neighbors ; and beyond 
expressing great indignation that he had not called upon her, she 
expressed no great interest in the vicar’s deputy. 

Olivia was taking to*the country life with much zest. Besides her 
household duties, she found time to occupy herself greatly with the 
live stock on the farm, and to take the poultry under her especial care. 
Mat Oldshaw used to slip round, on one pretence or another, in the 
early morningwhen she was busy with her poultry, and, leaning 
over the fence, used to give her advice about the management of them, 
trying to check her extravagance. 

“ Ye doan’t need to give ’em all that coorn. Miss Denison, now 
they aren’t laying,” he said to her one day reproachfully as she dis- 
tributed grain with a wildly lavish hand. “ What profit will ye be 
likely to get if ye feed ’em oop like that? Every egg ye’ll get this 
year ’ull cost ye twopence, and ye’ll lose on every chicken ye sell.” 

“ Well, I can’t starve them just because they’re not bringing in a 
profit just now,” said the girl. “ If they’ve any sense of gratitude, 
they’ll grow beautifully plump and fat, and sell at fancy prices.” 

“That there’s regular lady’s farming,” said Mat, shaking his 
head dubiously. “ And it’s of a piece wi’ t’ way t’ master’s goin’ to 
work himself. It’s very pretty, but it ain’t like practical work, and 
it doan’t pay.” 

Olivia’s bright face clouded. 

“ But papa’s got a farm bailiff,” said she. 

“ Oh ay, and gotten a rat to eat oop his coorn,” assented Mat 

darkly. . , . 

“Do you mean to insinuate,” began Olivia with a tragic face, 

“ that Tom Herrick ” 


66 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


“All Ah mean, Miss, is that Ah’d like to see ye mak’ a profit on 
your hens ; for that’s what Ah call success, and Ah’d loike ye to be 
successful, that Ah should.” 

“ Thank you. Mat ; it’s very kind of you. And you’re quite right ; 
of course it’s only by making every department pay that one can 
make the farm pay.” 

“Ay,” said Mat. “ And if ve’ll but follow out what I say, ye’ll be 
able to keep twice them lot o’ neiis on what ye’re givin’ ’em. Ye’ve 
got ground for fifty more, and if Ah was you Ah’d go over to Long 
Sedge Bend and buy s6me of old Widder Lund’s ; she’s got ’em to 
sell. And doan’t ye go giving her no fancy price, but beat ner down ; 
that’s business, and she’s none so poor but she can afford to let ve 
have ’em cheap. The bean’t so much to look at, her hens ; but they’re 
g'ood ’uns to lay, and worth a fieldful o’ them fancy soarts.” 

Olivia began to play thoughtfully with the grain left in her basket. 
She was verv anxious for the honor of her poultry yard, and she 
began already to be fired with the ambition to make it a successful- 
commercial enterprise. She had a little pocket money put by ; she 
could lay that out as she pleased, without consulting anybody. 

- “ How far off is this Long Sedge Bend ? ” 

“A matter o’ twea mile and a half. It’s down by Sedge Bend coal- 
pit.” 

“ And -where’s that ?” 

“Ye go along t’ Sheffield road till ye coom to t’ mill. Turn to yer 
left, as if ye were goin’ to Sheffield, till ye coom to t’ Blue Boar. Bear 
to yer left across t’ fields, and that’s Sedge Bend.” 

“ Isn’t there a shorter way across the fields ? That must be such a 
long way round. ” 

“Ay, but ye maunna go t’ short way. They’re a roough lot down 
at Lo’ng Sedge, and ye maun keep to t’ road.” 

“ Well, I shall go this very day and interview Mrs. Lund. I’m 
afraid, though, I shall be short of accommodation if I buy many 
more chickens.” 

“Nea, Ah’ll rig ye oop some nests and a perch in t’ auld toolhouse 
yonder. Ah can do ’t in an hour. ” 

“It’s awfully good of you, but you needn’t hurry with it, for I 
shan’t start till after luncheon.” 

“ But start as early as ye can. It doan’t do to be late, bv oneself, 
in those parts.” 

“ Well, I’ll be sure to start in good time, and I'll take a big basket, 
to bring some of the chickens back in.” 

“Best let mea fetch ’em for ye to-morrow ; Ah can’t get away to- 
day. It’s not for t’ loikes o’ you to carry baskets o’ live stock along 
t’ roads.” 

“But I can’t wait— I can’t wait ; I must see them to-day,” said 
this headstrong young madam, who liked to carry out her plans with 
the impetuosity of a whirlwind. “ And as for the basket, whv, 
there isn’t another farmer’s daughter in Yorkshire with stron g-er 
arms than mine. ’ 

Mat looked at her mistrustfully, but he said nothing more on the 
subject. 

“ Ah’ll tak’ t’ measure of t’ toolhouse if Ah may coom in,” was all 
he said. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


67 


Olivia was rnnning* to open the gate for him ; but, with a nod of 
thanks, he vaulted over the high fence, and set about his work with- 
out another word. The country lad had been fairly bewitched by 
the beauty and brightness of this young lady, who seemed to him a 
creature of a different mould from any of the womenkind he had 
hitherto met — even from handsome Mrs. Meredith Brander. Nothing 
gave him so much delight as to be able to render her a small service ; 
and even while he was taking the measurements of the toolhouse, he 
was pondering a way to spare her what he considered the dangers of 
the walk she proposed to take that afternoon. The girl herself, know- 
ing nothing of this plan, and thinking lightly enough of the enter- 
prise, watclied his proceedings with great interest, and finally over- 
whelmed him with thanks wnich sent him home happy. 

Olivia started on her walk that afternoon without a* word to any- 
body concerning the object of her expedition. She had a purse with 
some of her savings in her pocket, and a large poultry basket on her 
arm. “ I shall leave this basket somewhere when I come in sight of 
the cottage, and pretend I’ve only come to look at the chickens,” she 
said to herself, resolved to be very astute. But the widow Lund was 
more astute still, and managed to drive a very good bargain with her 
fair young customer. Indeed, Olivia showed such a helpless inability 
to distinguish between a young chicken and the hoariest-headed 
rooster of the lot, that it would have needed superhuman virtue not 
to take advantage of her. It Was vdth a glow of unspeakable delight 
and pride that, having paid for a dozen hens, she said she would take 
half of them home with her, and, running out of the cottage, picked 
up the basket which she had hidden behind the hedge, and brought 
it to pack her live stock in. 

Poor Olivia ! An unknown visitor was such a rare sight at Long 
Sedge that the advent of “ a grand lady wi’ a big basket ” had been 
reported all over the village as she drew near the outskirts ; and the 
widow Lund herself, with two cronies, having watched her approach, 
basket and all, from the door of Mrs. Perkin’s washhouse, was able 
to appreciate at its full value the poor little ruse. 

When her load was ready, Olivia quickly discovered that a basket 
containing six live chickens is neither a light nor a convenient bur- 
den, and perceived that to carry them back by the way she had come 
would be a more arduous and fatiguing task than she had imagined. 
When, therefore, she found there was a path across the fields which 
would lead up to the high road, and shorten the way by at least half 
a mile, the temptation was too strong for her, and, disregarding 
Mat’s warnings, as that young man had expected her to do, she ven- 
tured fearlessly on the short cut. Half a dozen unkempt children 
laughed and yelled at her as she passed : a few rough-looking women 
whispered to each other at the doors of their dirty cottages ; while a 
man, who was leaning against a wall smoking a short black pipe, 
slunk out of her way, as if conscious that she belonged to a higher 
type of civilization. Mat was right ; Long Wedge Bank was a rough 
place. The inhabitants looked wild and out of touch with the rest of 
humanity ; the long rows of small brick cottages, many of which 
were windowless and deserted, looked squalid and miserable, while 
over everything was that black and grimy look which the neighbor^ 
hood of a coal pit produces. 


68 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


It was Saturday afternoon, and the pits were idle. A g*reat black 
wheel, towering over a mound on the right,' showed where lay the 
entrance to the nearest shaft. Round the door of a beerhouse, 
smaller and much more disreputable-looking than the Collier’s Arms, 
was a group of men and boys, spending their half holiday in dull 
and noisy fashion. They were a rough-looking lot, and Olivia 
passed them quickly. Her way lay along* a cinder path 07 er the 
fields, and for some time she got on very well, meeting no one, and 
enjoying the frosty afternoon. Just as she ran through a turnstile 
and followed the sudden turn of the path to the left, however, a man 
started up from the ground, called out “Hallo, missis !” and attempt- 
ed to seize one of her feet. She was startled into uttering a low ex- 
clamation, and, rightly judging that the man was drunk, she ran 
on as fast as she could, hoping to get beyond his pursuit before he 
could get upon his legs. But a drunken man may be able to run 
. when ne cannot walk ; and Olivia’s assailant, who was a stalwart 
young collier with a blear-eyed and most unprepossessing face, gave 
chase in good earnest, and came up with her just as she came to a 
barrier between two fields in the shape of a very high and ver;y 
primitive stile. Seeing she had no time to get over it in safety, the 
^irl put down her basket close by the hedge, turned suddenly, and 
faced her pursuer. 

For the first time in her life she felt thoroughly frightened, for the 
young man looked brutal and reckless ; but she had plenty of cour- 
age, and the terror she felt showed neither in her face, her attitude, 
nor in her resonant voice. 

“What do you want P” 

He reeled, not having expected her sudden movement. 

“ Ah want look at tha pretty feace, meh dear,” said he, only just 
distinctly enough for her to understand him. 

And he gave her a tipsy leer of admiration. 

“And now will you be" kind enough to pass on?” said she, in a 
firm tone. “ Or to let me pass on without further hindrance ?” 

“Ah’m not a-hinderin’ of tha,” said the young man, who was 
trying to stand steadily in proximity much to^o close to be pleasant. 
“Tha can goa wheer tha lakkest.” 

Olivia looked at him doubtfully, but as he made for the moment no 
attempt to molest her, she began to feel reassured. 

“ Go back, then,” said she, “and let me go on.” 

“Nea,” said he, shaking his head with an ugly grin; “Ah’m 
goin’ to help tha over t’ stile. Ah’ll carry tha whisket for tha if 
thr’rt civil.” 

“Thank you,” said Olivia, taking the fellow’s offers as if they 
were courtesies, “but I want no help, either for myself or my basket. 
If you wish to do me a service, you will go back and let me go on.” 

“Ah maun see tha over t’ stile first,” said he. “ Coom, missis, 
don’t be shy.” 

He swooped down upon her basket, which she snatched up so 
quickly that he lost his balance and fell against the wooden fence. 
With a rapid step she got round him, basket and all, and was in the 
act of mounting the first step of the stile when the young ruffian, 
perceiving her purpose and enraged at a blow he had receiv^ in 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


69 


stumbling*, lurched round with unexpected ability, and laid a roug*h 
hand on her arm. She tried to wrench herself free, but the muscular 
strength she was so proud of was as a child’s feebleness against the 
brute force of this man. It had never before happened to her to feel 
powerless like this. With teeth clinched hard, and eyes watching 
intently for a moment’s advantage, she wrestled in utter silence with 
the man, who tried to force her to mount the stile. 

“Tha’d better not give ma so mooch trouble, ma bonny madam,” 
said he, roughly. “Tha’ll only have to pay for t’ other side. An’ 
Ah’ll tak’ a buss now to goa on wi’.” 

He put his arm round her waist and tried to kiss her ; Olivia 
fought fiercely, still without uttering a word. In the midst of her 
lesperate struggles her assailant saw the girl’s face change — light up 
with ho^, with expectancy. Then, with all the force of her lungs, 
she suddenly shouted, “Help!” For a moment the collier was sur- 
prised into (Resisting from his attack, but before she could take ad- 
vantage of this he recovered himself, and putting one rough and 
dirty hand over her mouJ;h, growled out, sullenly — 

“ Nea, theer bean’t no help for tha till Ah done with tha.” 

Closing his strong fingers on her face, he pulled her head around 
with brutal violence, and had his own repulsive face close to hers, 
when he suddenly felt one strong hand laid on his shoulder and an- 
other under his chin, and his head being forced back with a jerk, he 
found that he was in the vigorous clutches of the vicar of St. Cuth- 
bert’s.” 

“Dang tha! It’s t’ feightin’ parson!” cried the rough, in a surly 
tone. 

“Yes, and I’m going to exercise my fists on your u^ly face as 
soon as ever you^re sober, you hulking vagabond!” said Mr. Bran- 
der, with a conspicuous lack of pastoral meekness. 

The man had fallen back, and, half drunk as he was, looked 
ashamed of himself. * 

“Tha maun look out for thaself if tha tries that on,” he said, 
sullenly. Then with more assurance he went on, “Dunna think Ah 
care for tha bein’ t’ parson. It ain’t mooch of a parson tha’lt be when 
all’s known. Ay,” he continued, seeing that these vague words 
were not without effect, “theer’s a mon aboot as wants tha, an’ as 
woan’t rest till e’s gotten tha, and may be before tha taks oop wi’ 
another lass e’ll mak^ tha give an account o’ t’ one tha spirited away. 
Now coomon if thaloikes.^’ 

And he put himself in a fighting position. 

Mr. Brander pushed him on one side so that he staggered, and 
picking up Olivia’s basket, signed to her to get over the stile, while 
he turned to give a few short and sharp words of farewell to the dis- 
comfited collier. A few seconds later Olivia, who had walked quickly 
on in shame, relief, and confusion, heard the vicar’s voice close be- 
hind her. ^ ^ 

“And now. Miss Denison, I've a sermon ready for you. 

Coming up with her, he saw that the girl, who made no answer, 
had tears in her eyes. 

“ No, I’m not going to have any mercy on you because you choose 
to cry,” said he, pitilessly. “ It^s no fairer of a girl to use her tears 


70 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


f ainst a man than it is of a man to us3 his fists against a woman. 

you don’t instantly leave oft’, I shall feel at liberty to hit you. You 
know you deserve it.” 

“How?” asked she, tremulously. 

“How ! Why, by disregarding the emphatic warnings, not of one 
friend, but of two, and by dragging out a poor parson on Saturday,’ 
his sermon day, to protect you from the consequences of your folly. ’ 
“Dragging you out !” 

“Yes. This morning comes Mat Oldshaw post-haste to me just 
before luncheon to sav that you were going oft’ on a wild-goose — 
no, on a tame-hen— cnase to Long Sedge Bend, and that he was cer- 
tain you would come back over the very fields which he had just as- 
sured you were unsafe for a ladv.” 

“ But, Mr.’Brander,” put in Olivia, in real distress, “I’ve always 
been used to take care of myself ; I have never been annoyed before. 
It’s an infamous thing that a girl shouldn’t be able to do what her 
powers enable her to do just as well as a man !” 

“Infamous, perhaps, but indisputable. It is of no use to kick 
against custom.” 

“But what is going to be the use of me, if I, a great strong crea- 
ture who can do lots of work, and shall soon understand farming bet- 
ter than papa, can’t cross the road without a footman at my heels to 
keep off typsy coal miners? Oh, dear, I wish I weren’t a wretched 

^ “ You couldn’t be anything else, with that illogical mind, and that 
extravagant way of looking at things.” 

“ Illogical !” cried she, now really offended. “Why, papa says I 
have the most reasonable head he ever knew !” 

“For a woman.” 

Olivia was at first too much offended to answer. 

“I’m papa’s right hand,” she said, at last, coldly. “I’m just like 
a son to him.” 

“I think not. Miss Denison, ” said the vicar, shaking his head. 

“ My father would tell you so himself, Mr. Brander.” 

“ And I should not believe him, Miss Denison.” 

Olivia began to see that the vicar was enjoying her indignation, 
so ‘she bit her lips and remained silent. 

“Just think now, what happens when you find him a little de- 
pressed and irritable. Does he dismiss you with a snub as he 
would one of your brothers? Does he not rather submit to a little 
gentle coaxing, allow himself to be ‘ brought round’ and receive a 
kiss as a reward?” 

“ Yes, that is true, certainly,” said she, smiling. “ But that has 
nothing to do with the real value of the help I give him.” 

“Oh, but it has. It has, on the contrary, everything to do with 
it. Instead of complaining that you are a ‘ wretched girl’ you must 
learn to understana that. What the intrinsic value of your services 
may be I don’t know ; but if you had the abilities of a Senior 
Wrangler they would count for nothing compared with your sym- 
pathy "and love for him, and your pretty feminine way of showing 
it. And so, you see, as your" tender womanhood is oi more conse- 
quence to us — I mean to him— than all the fine masculine qualities 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


71 


of your intellect, yon must consent to accept the protection we decree 
that your womanhood needs.” 

“ Papa doesn’t decree it. He says ffirls onffht to learn to take care 
of themselves.” 

“ Will he say so after to-day’s adventure, do you think ?” 

“I shan’t tell him anything* about it.” 

“Then I shall, unless you give me your word, like a sensible girl, 
never to cross these fields alone again.” 

“ Need you ask that, Mr. Brander?” said the girl, reddening. 

“Well, forgive me. I don’t know you well enough to be sure 
how deep the headstrong vein runs. ” 

“I am miserably sorry and ashamed to have brought you so far 
this afternoon.” * 

“Are you? Oh, I have done more irksome things than that in 
my time, I assure you,” said he drily. “Besides, I’ve only come 
from St. Cuthbert’s. I’m back again in my own parsonage 
to-day, you know, for my brother and sister-in-law are expected 
this afternoon.” 

“Are they?” said she. “ I am so anxious to see them, especially 
Mrs. Brander.” 

“Make haste on to the high road then, and we may meet them. 
The pony cart has gone to meet them, and they generally come this 
way round from Matherham.” 

They were within a short distance of the road when Mr. Brander de- 
scried a little way off his sister-in-law’s li^ht wood cart and plump cob 
pony. Quickening their pace, 01iviaexciteaandcurious,hercompanion 
decidedly nervous, they climbed the last steps of the hill, and reached 
the high road a few moments before the cart came up. They stopped to 
recover their breath, exchanging a merry word or two as they 
waited. As they drove up, Olivia, who had splendid eyesight, could 
see what a handsome pair the vicar of Bishton and his wife were. 
He was fair, serene, portly, g’ood-humored ; she, dark,, erect, and 
blooming. They were conversing amicably as they came along, and 
did not notice tne two people waiting by the roadside until they were 
close upon them, and Vernon Brander accosted them. Olivia won- 
dered at the nervous tremor in his voice as he did so. 

But she was still more surprised at the effect of the meeting upon 
the lady and gentleman in the cart. The serenity of the portly 
vicar clouded at sight of his brother ; an indescribable change came 
over his face, a look which was not exactly disapproval, or doubt, or 
suspicion, or mistrust, though it partook of all those qualities, as he 
glanced from Mr. Vernon Brander to the beautiful girl at his side. 
The expression of the lady spoke more plainly still. Her eyes 
moved quickly from the man to the woman and back again, while 
her lips tightened and her forehead puckered with evident consterna- 
tion. Both lady and gentleman, whatever the cause of their an- 
noyance might be, were self-possessed enough to give Miss Denison 
a kind and courteous greeting, when Mr. Vernon Brander, with 
evident nervousness, introduced her. Learning that Olivia had been 
buving poultry, Mrs. Brander inspected the purchase with great 
interest, but pronounced two of the birds to be very old roosters in- 
deed. She then told her brother-in-law that they were going straight 


72 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


home to an early dinner, and told him to make haste to the Vicarage, 
as they should expect him to join them. 

Then they drove off, leaving Olivia with the uncomfortable im- 
pression that they disapproved of her acquaintance with Mr. Vernon 
Brander in the strongest possible manner. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Not for some minutes after the little carriage containing the Rever- 
end Meredith Brander and his wife had driven on did either of the 
young people they had left break silence. Olivia watched the dis- 
appearing vehicle with much interest, and Vernon Brander, though 
with less openness, watched Olivia. 

At last she turned sharply, and met his eyes fixed upon her with a 
half-fierce, half-mournful intentness, which struck her with 
painful surprise. He at once turned away his head, and asked 
abruptly — 

“Well, what do you think of them? Mind, it is of no use for 
you to say you ‘ haven’t had time to judge,’ or anything of that sort, 
for I have already caught the reflection of very decided opinion in 
your face.” 

“I don’t deny that I have formed decided opinions, though I don’t 
' i-e myself they are correct.” 

Veil?” 

“I think I shall like your brother, but I know I shan’t like his 
wife.” 

“ Very stratghtforwardly put. An instinct merely, or something 
more?” 

“Something more, I think. You know, I have seen their por- 
traits ; well, I have thought about them a great deal, and now I have 
compared my impressions of the photographs With my impressions of 
the originals, and the result is a decided opinion.” 

“You know I told you that you would like my brother— that all 
ladies do,” said Vernon, with a perceptible shade of jealousy. 

“Well, you were right; I admit it. He seems the "incarna- 
tion of good humor— to shed a sort of sunshine of cheeriness around 
him.” 

“Yes, yes, he does,” admitted Vernon, rather bitterly, Olivia 
thought. " 

She continued: “It was plain that, for some reason or other, 
neither he nor Mrs. Brander was glad to see me. It almost seemed 
as if they took an instinctive dislike to me. But even that could not 
sour your brother ; it scarcely made him less genial. On the other 
hand, it made all the difference in the world to Mrs. Braiider’s man- 
ner. She looked at me just as if I were an enemy, who had done 
her, or was going to do her, some severe injury.” 

Glancing at her companion, Olivia saw that something she had 
said affected him very strongly. She was silent therefore, afraid that 
she had already said too much. 

“It may be,” said Mr. Brander, after a pause, “that she feels a 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


73 


kind of most innocent jealousy of you. She has, all throug-h her 
married life, been used to look upon me as one of those unattached 
tame cats who are only too g-lad to catch mice for any responsible 
matron who is kind to them. My sister-in-law annexed me in that 
capacity long a^o ; sends me to market, sets me to mind the children, 
to nail up the fmlen picture, or even to lecture the gardener. I don’t 
suppose she has seen me speak to another lady — a young lady — for 
ten years.” 

“1 should have thought, by her look, she would be equal to lectur- 
ing the gardener herself,” said Olivia, drily. 

Mi> Brander laughed. “ Well, she is not quite resourceless when 
it comes to an affair of the tongue,” he admitted. “But you must 
not think she is a shrew, for all that. Then, she has been our 
beauty, too, and has been used to set the fashions for the ladies. 
While now ” He stopped and smiled as he looked at the bloom- 

ing, prettily dressed girl beside him. 

Olivia, however, found this no smiling matter, but replied, with 
deep scorn — 

“Surely, Mrs. Brander can’t be so small-minded as that. I can 
assure her I have no wish to entrench upon her privileges ; and, 
with only eighteen pounds a year for dress and pocket money, I am 
not likely to set fashions that there will be a rush to follow.” 

“You might set a fashion in faces,” suggested he. 

“Oh,” said she, laughing, “ if Mrs. Brander envies me the admira- 
tion of Mr. Frederick Williams — or, indeed, of any of the jeunesse 
doree of this neighborhood— I can assure her that she will only have 
to wait a very little while before my unqualitied disdain will bring 
them all again to her matronly feet.” 

“Mvself among the number.” 

“ oh, Mr. Brander, I didn’t count you.” 

“ But in mercy you must. I am rather grey behind the ears, and 
rather lean about the jaws ; but let me still think myself as eligible 
a bachelor as the place boasts.” 

He spoke playfully, but something, either in his tone or in the 
knowledge she had of his life, touched* her, and made her voice very 
kind, as she answered— 

“ I did not mean that I thought you too old. I meant that I could 
not think of classing you with a creature like Frederick Williams.” 

“He would take that as a compliment.” 

“I don’t think he would if he saw me look at him and then at you 
while I said so.” 

Mr. Brander pulled up his clerical collar, and affected to give his 
hat a jaunty cock. 

“It’s so long since J’ve been ‘buttered up,’ and it’s so nice,” said 
he. 

Why, you have a great following among the ladies of the vil- 

i am afraid I look upon them— though without so much reason 
—much as you do upon their counterparts of the opposite sex.” 

“And Mrs. Brander, doesn’t she, in return for your services at 
marketing and nailing pictures, ‘ butter you up ’ too?” 

The gaiety, which had sat so pleasantly on the usually grave man, 
suddenly evaporated. He answered, very quietly— 


74 


St. cuth Bert’s tower. 


“ She calls me a good fellow, and— yes, I think she means it.” 

They had slackened their steps a little as they drew near the bot- 
tom 01 the hill where The Chequers hid the entrance to Rishton Hall 
Farm. They had stopped altogether at the bottom to exchange these 
last few sentences before saying farewell. As his last woro^s were 
succeeded by a moment’s pause, Mr. Brander glanced up the hill he 
had to climb to the Vicarage, and became aware of his brother’s port- 
ly figure descending the slope with measured steps toward them, 
fiis cheeks grew pale ; the last gleam of vivacity died out of his face. 

The change caused Olivia to look in the same direction, and to 
note that there was something judicial in the handsome vicar’s gait — 
something mildly apprehensive in the expression of his face. She 
felt an impulse of indignation against both husband and wife for 
their inexplicably rigorous attitude towards Vernon Brander and 
herself. At sighfof his brother, Vernon, who seemed at once to grow 
cold and form^, raised his hat, and would have left her with a few 
words of farewell. But she held out her hand, and, as he took it with 
a flushing face, she retained his with a warm clasp, while she said — 

“ I am going to get papa to waylay you, Mr. Brander, as you come 
back from the Vicarage. You nave never been inside the house 
since the day you played fairy godmother to me and poor Lucy. I 
want you to see the old house now we have made it again a home.’’ 

“I shall be delighted, Miss Denison,” faltered poor Vernon, with 
one ear for her kindly words and the other for his brother’s deliber- 
ately approaching footsteps. “ You are very kind to me,” he added, 
in a hasty undertone. Then in his usual voice, “Good-night,” said 
he, as she released his hand, and, with a bow to the vicar, turned to 
the farm-yard gate. 

With a"few steps on either side— dignified in the one, hurried and 
nervous in the other— the brothers met. The elder passed his arm 
affectionately within that of the younger, and turned to walk up the 
hill with him. 

“Evelyn began to be afraid you had forgotten us and our dinner 
in pleasanter society than ours,” said Meredith, in his genial voice. 

If Vernon, as his nervous manner suggested, was afraid of his 
brother, the fault lay in his own conscience, and not in any coldness 
or harsnness on the part of the Vicar of Rishton. 

“No,” said Vernon, hastily ; “I had not forgotten. Of course not. 
Miss Denison was annoyed by a roug'h as she was crossing the fields ; 
I came up just in time— by the merest accident— and I could do no 
less than see her home.” 

“ Of course not. Not a very great penance either. What an ex- 
tremely pleasant-looking girl ! 

It was characteristic of me vicar’s warm, expansive nature that 
he found enjoyment in all goodly things ; and he never attempted to 
hide the pleasure the sight of a beautiful woman gave him, although, 
as in the present instance, he remembered his cloth in the expression 
of it. 

“She is very handsome,” said Vernon, whose candor went a step 
further than his brother’s. 

“And amiable?” 

“ By^ that one means sympathetic to oneself, I suppose. Yes, I 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


75 


find her amiable,” said the younger man, with a sort of dogged de- 
fiance in his tone. 

“ Then you are pretty intimate already ? ” 

The vicar spoke without the least harshness, but the answer came 
in an almost sullen tone, as if Vernon’s own conscience were re- 
proaching him. 

“Not very. This is the fourth time I have met her.” 

“ But, dear me, with these sweet -faced girls, one gets over the 
ground so fast ! ” sugwsted the elder more genially than ever. 

“ That depends. There’s not much about me to fascinate a beau- 
tiful woman.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t mean that ; I certainly did not mean that. But we 
had looked upon you— you had taught us to look upon you— as a 
confirmed bachelor ; almost a misogynist.” 

“No, not that,” interrupted the younger, abruptly. “I have 
always admired women ; in my way, at least, as much as you have 
in yours — unluckily for me,” he added in a bitter, mocking tone. 

“And now your admiration is to take shape in a definite prefer- 
ence for one ?” said the vicar, rather diffidently. 

Vernon was restless and uneasy ; he snapped twigs off the hedge 
as he walked along, and seemed unable to look his brother in the 
face. 

“What does my preference matter?” he asked, at last, almost 
fiercely. “ What dia it matter before, except to bring upon me the 
shame and shadow of my whole life?” 

His brother looked shocked and alarmed at this outburst. He put 
his arm, which Vernon had thrown off, again most persuasively 
through that of the younger man. 

“Come, come,” he said, very earnestly, very affectionately ; “you 
must not talk like that. You lead a life— voluntarily, mind, else 
there would be no grandeur, no dignity, in it— so full of austerity 
and self-sacrifice that you are winning yourself almost the reputa- 
tion of a saint. You have shown an example of courage and endur- 
ance such as few men would have the steadfastness to follow — not I, 
for one, 1 admit. You are loved by your parishioners. And it is 
scarcely too much to say that by your own family— Evelyn, myself, 
and the little ones— you are adored.” 

The Vicar of Rishton watched his brother’s face closely as he pro- 
nounced these words in full tones of deep feeling. They took effect 
at once. The thin, sensitive face relaxed, and a faint smile hovered 
on Vernon’s lips as he answered— 

“ You are all very good to me, and! love you for it j but you don’t 
need to be told that now. As for all that about my being a saint and 
a martyr, it is nonsense, and only a kind way of putting the fact that 
ten years ago ” 

^‘Now why trouble yourself about what happened ten years ago?” 
interrupted the vicar in grave but most gentle tones. “The evil 
wrouo-htthen has been bitterly repented of, and atoned for in a 
manner so noble that I can scarcely speak of it without tears.” 

‘‘Noble ? Nonsense! There was nothing in what I have done but 
the outcome of a most commonplace human feeling. I don’t wish to 
deceive you about that, or get more credit than is due to me.” 


76 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“Well, I will say no more on the point. It is not for me to con- 
tradict you. For, whatever may have been our relative positions 
ten years ag’o, your life since then has made you a better man than 
I, and I bow to you as to my superior.” 

It was very g-racefully said, with a warmth and sincerity of tone 
which made it no empty compliment from the handsome, much- 
revered vicar to the hermit-parson of ruinous St. Cuthbert’s. The 
latter received it with a restive, deprecatory, impatient wave of the 
hand ; but yet a keen observer, who had looked from the one face to 
the other at that moment, would almost have been inclined to say 
that the elder, whether or not he quite meant what he said, had 
spoken the truth, and that the worn features and keen g*rev eyes of 
the younger man revealed higher capacities for good than the bland, 
benevolent, and good-humored countenance of his brother. Ten 
years ago, before tne tragic event which had been the turning point 
of Vernon’s life, the reverse of this would have been true. Passion- 
ate, reckless, and hot tempered, he would have looked, beside his 
open-faced brother, like the evil angel beside the good. But a de- 
cade of unruffled prosperity on the one hand, and the same period of 
austere self-sacrifice on the other, had told their tale ; and the man 
over whom there hung the shadow of a fearful crime now threatened, 
by long humility and devotion, to oust from the first place in the 
esteem of the rough mining population the irreproachable and kindly 
Vicar of Eishton himself. 

Meredith had spoken the last words in a decisive tone, as if he con- 
sidered the discussion at an end. But from the expression of his 
brother’s face, it was clear that he had yet something to say — some- 
thing of more import than anything that had yet passed between 
them. 

“You have tried me long enough to trust my discretion a little, 
Meredith ; but I don’t know how you will take what I am going to 
tell vou.” He hurried on in an agitated voice, without looking his 
brotlier in the face. “ I have never been a misogynist ; perhaps I 
shall not always be a bachelor. Mind, I only say perhaps.’' 

There was a long pause. They tramped "up the hill side by side 
without exchanging so much as a look, until the pretty gables of the 
Vicarage were in sight, peeping out behind the massive evergreens 
and the yet bare lilac branches of the vicar’s garden. Then Mere- 
dith spoke, in the most subdued and gentlest of voices — 

“ You are the best, indeed, the only possible judge of your own 
conduct, Vernon ; but I fear that, to a nature like yours, tlie thought 
of having caused suffering to a woman you love will some day be 
very bitter.” 

]Sis voice seemed to fade away on the last words, as it did at the 
pathetic points of his sermons. His eloquence again took effect on 
the sensitiue Vernon. 

“My wife— if, indeed, lever had a wife— should never know the 
truth,” said he, in a low and husky voice, 

“Oh, but she will!” said Meredith, with energy. “Do not de- 
ceive yourself on that point ; you cannot deceive me. No one can 
prevent your marrying ; I, for one, shall never utter another word 
against such a step; but, if you do take it, your ten years’ 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


77 


silence, as far as the feelings of others are concerned, will have been 
in vain.” 

There was another pause— a short one, this time. Then Vernon 
spoke, in a harsh and broken voice — 

“ Be satisfied. No woman shall ever suffer through me — again. I 
will bear it to the end— alone.” 

“ Spoken bravely— spoken like yourself,” began the vicar of Rish- 
ton, in his usual firm and cheerful tones. He was about to say 
more, when his speech was checked by the sight of a man’s face w,ef- 
ing over the wall of a small, neglected garden, which adjoine^ the 
vicar’s own premises on a lower level of the hill. 

The face was that of a stranger, but of a stranger who apparently 
took a deep interest in his surroundings. Meredith Brander exam- 
ined his features with frank and rather puzzled interest, while Ver- 
non scanned the face with an intentness which almost savored of 
dread. The stranger, on his side, gave them a nod of free-and-easy 
greeting, which thev returned by a more conventional salute, as they 
proceeded up the hill. 

“ Who is that man?” asked Meredith, as if trying to recall some 
memory connected with the features he had just" seen. 

“I don’t know,” answered the brother, in a troubled voice. His 
brother looked inquiringly. 

‘ ‘ Have you seen him before ? I can’t quite make up my mind 
whether he is a stranger to me or not.” 

“He is a stranger,” said Vernon; “probably the man who 
has taken the cottage. I heard this morning that it was let at 
last.” 

“You don’t know his name then?” 

“Mat Oldshaw, who told me, did not mention his name.” 

No more was said on the subject of the stranger by either of the 
brothers, both of whom remained apparently in deep thought for the 
few remaining steps of their walk. 

The gravity of both faces lightened when, on reaching the Vicar- 
age, the sounds of childish voices broke upon their ears. Mrs. 
Meredith Brander prided herself on nothing so much as on being a 
“ sensible woman and, as there is no sign of want of sense in a 
woman so marked as the spoiling of children, the event went a little 
way in the opposite direction, and kept her little daughter of ten and 
small son of six in somewhat rigorous subjection. Not only did she 
honor the old-fashioned saying’ that “ children should be seen and 
not heard,” but she even went so far as to think that the less seen of 
them the l3etter. Her husband, who was an affectionate and even 
demonstrative father, would have had them much more about the 
house ; but he yielded in all domestic matters implicitly to his wife’s 
ruling, and, as she had decreed that the proper place for children was 
the nursery, in the nursery they for the most part remained. There- 
fore, the children had come back in a cab with the luggage, instead 
of with papa and mamma, in the pony carriage, and they were on 
their way up the stairs towards their own domain when their father 
and uncle came in and caught them. 

Vernon Brander’s haggard face lighted up with an expressic of 
deep tenderness as the little girl turned on hearing the gentlemen’s 


78 


ST. cutkbebt’s towee. 


footsteps, and, with a shrill cry of childish delight, ran down a few 
steps, and liung her little arms tempestuously round his neck. 

“ Uncle Vernie ! Uncle Vernie !” she cooed breathlessly into his 
ear. “Oh, I have such a lot tell you, and I’ve such a heap of shells 
for you, and some seaweed for you to dry ; and, oh ! I have so 
wanted to see you, and have you with us there by the sea. It would 
have been lovely if only you’d been there !” 

“ Come, come, vou carneying, blarneying, little sixpenn’orth of 
halfpence,” said iTncle Veriion, seating himself on the stairs and put- 
ting his arm affectionately around her little waist, “don’t pretend it 
wasn’t lovely without me, or that you’re glad the holiday’s over so 
that you can see your old uncle again.” 

“But I am though, whether you believe it or not,” said the child, 
gravely, looking into the wrinkles of the clergyman’s face with 
affectionate solicitude. “The sea was beautiful, and it was nice to 
have no lessons, and to see the pretty people, and to have new walks 
instead of the old ones we’re so tired of. But there was no one to tell 
what one thought, no one to look at me like you look, Uncle Vernie 
— no one to hug’ like this. ” 

And, suiting the action to the word, she crushed up his head and 
face in a stifling embrace. 

At that moment the drawing-room door opened, and Mrs. Brander, 
handsome, erect, and neat as a statue, came upon the scene. 

“Kate, you are forgetting yourself, my dear,” she said, in a tone 
of gentle but decided reproof. “ Your uncle does not mind a kiss, 
but a bear’s hug is neither lady -like nor welcome.” 

The child withdrew her arms at once, and relapsed into the un- 
natural demeanor of a sensitive child snubbed. Vernon grew red, 
and passed his hand over the little girl’s fair head with more than 
paternal tenderness. 

“ Don’t be hard upon the child, Evelyn,” he said in a low voice. 
“You who have children of your own don’t know what pleasure that 
‘bear’s hug’ can give to a childless man.” 

Meredith Brander, who had been playing with his little boy, 
looked uneasily towards his brother at this speech. 

“What a fuss you make about that child!” said Mrs. Brander, 
lightlv, as if anxious to turn the conversation. 

And, coming to the staircase, she picked up the little girl’s hat, 
which had fallen off in the course of her excited greetings, and tell- 
ing her to run upstairs and get her face washed, Mrs. Brander in- 
vited her brother-in-law, with a welcoming gesture, to come with her 
into the drawing-room. 

Vernon followed her with scarcely disguised reluctance, which the 
lady did not fail to perceive. 

“ What is the matter with you, Vernon?” she asked, as she seated 
herself by an open work-basket, and immediately began operations 
upon an embroidered pinafore. “ There is a change in vou since we 
went away ; you have either grown less sociable, or else you have 
found some society more congenial than ours. Sit down ; that pac* 
ing to and fro fidgets me.” 

Vernon stopped in front of her, but did not seat himself, 


ST. cuthbbrt’s tower. 


79 


Do you know,” he beg’an, abruptly, “ that I have gone through 
a lengthy catechism of this sort at the hands of your husband ? I 
have given the fullest answers to all his questions, and he can pass 
on to you any information ^ou may require.” 

• In spite of the peremptoriness of his words, his tone was almost 
pleading ; and in his face, as he looked down upon her, there was an 
expression of chivalrous kindliness which took all harshness out of 
his speech. 

Mrs. Brander, glancing up at him, drew a breath of relief. 

“I was almost beginning to fear, Vernon, that you had formed, or 
were on the point of forming, new ties which would make you forget 
the old ones.” 

Mrs. Brander’s voice was not capable of expressing much deep 
emotion ; but she lowered it, as she said these words, to the softest 
pitch it could reach. 

“Forget !” he echoed. “ That is a process my mind is incapable 
of. I think jrou know that, Evelyn.” 

She gave him a straightforwardly, affectionate look out of her 
handsome eyes. 

‘ ‘ Perhaps I do, Vernon, ” she said, gently. ‘ ‘ Perhaps I think your 
mind incapable of any process by which you could bring suffering 
upon another person.” 

Vernon looked down into her beautiful face critically. There was 
genuine anxiety in her expression, but it did not touch him as much 
as a similar expression on those comely features had been wont to 
do. For the last few weeks he had been haunted by another woman’s 
face, one which betrayed most ingenuously every thought of the 
owner’s mind, every impulse of a warm young heart. Mrs. Brander 
was intelligent enough to have an indea of the truth ; and when she 
saw that her soft speech left him comparatively cold, she did not 
waste another on him, but rose from her seat with a sigh, and bent 
over her table in such a way that he could not see her face The 
sensitive Vernon instantly began to imagine tears in her eyes, drawn 
forth bv his own hardness. He was seeking words to comfort her 
when tne door opened, and Meredith came in. His genial presence 
seemed on the instant to relieve the embarrassment of the other two. 

“It seems to me, my dear,” he began to his wife, “that Kitty is 
not looking any the bettei*' for her stay at Bournemouth. I went 
upstairs with the children just now, and I was quite struck with the 
paleness of the child’s cheeks.” 

As the vicar uttered these words, a change came rapidly over his 
brother’s face. He glanced from father to mother with an expression 
of the deepest anxiety, which Mrs. Brander, while answering her 
husband in calm and measured tgnes, did not fail to note. 

“I think you worry yourself unnecessarily about the child. She’s 
tired now after her journey ; she will probably look all right again 
to-morrow.” 

The vicar allowed himself to be pacified by his wife’s assurances, 
and, leading his brother away to the fireplace, they occupied them- 
selves, until the announcement of dinner, in discussing the trifling 
events which had happened in the parish during the vicar’s absence. 
Mrs. Brander listened with an especially attentive ear while her 


80 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


brother-in-law g-ave a somewhat detailed account of the arrival of 
the new occupants of E-ishton Hall Farm, including*, as it necessarily 
did, the story of his own assistance at their installation. 

Mrs. Brander did not attempt to deceive herself as to the strong* 
measure of interest which the beautiful young* farmer’s daughter 
had excited in Vernon. Neither did she disg’uise from herseli the 
anxiety and annoyance which this discovery caused her. In- 
stead, nowever, of indulging in any feeling's of feminine jealousy, 
she set herself to try to devise a way of ousting this rival. A ray of 
light broke suddenly over her handsome face. 

“When I spoke of my own suffering, he was certainly not so much 
touched as he used to be,” she reflected. “ On the other hand, any- 
thing connected with Kitty seems to move him more than ever. I 
must play Kitty against this Miss Denison.” 

And, without any of the pangs of a jealous woman, Mrs. Brander, 
with a glance at her innocent &other-in-law, made a calm resolution 
as to the part she should play in what she perceived to be an incipient 
love affair. 


CHAPTER Xn. 

Vernon Brander left his brother’s house that evening in a frenzy 
of doubt and uncertainty, such as his passionate, self -torturing nature 
was liable to. He had so long been bound in a dutiful and chivalrous 
vassalage to his sister-in-law, seeing her faults without being re- 
pelled by them, and in all things doin^ her reverent homage as to 
nis early ideal, that it came upon him with a shock to discover 
suddenly, as he had done this evening, that she had fallen from that 
high place in her imagination. He tried in vain to hide from him- 
self the fact that this change in his feelings was due to the appear- 
ance on the scene of a rivm who was carrying away all before her. 
Mrs. Brander had, on previous occasions, scoffed at his adoration of 
children ; she had often shown clearly how little she cared for his 
feelings ; but never before to-night had she seemed to him cold, and 
hard, and selfish ; never before liad it occurred to him to think how 
lacking she was in feminine softness and charm. 

Following on this discovery came the inevitable consciousness who 
it was that had brought about this knowledge. If he had not looked 
lately into a softer pair of eyes, if he had not felt the touch of a 
warmer hand, if, in short, he had never met Olivia Denison, he 
would have gone on comfortably in his platonic worship of the only 
woman of his acquaintance who had any of those elements of beauty 
and grace which were necessary to his somewhat fastidious stan- 
dard. But the advent of the beautiful, warm-hearted, impulsive 
young girl had changed all that ; and Vernon, as he remembered 
the promises he had made to his brother and his brother’s wife, and 
recognized clearly enough that by the circumstances of his life he 
was bound to remain in bachelor loneliness, felt that the burden of a 
bygone sin was heavier upon him than he could bear. 

He was going gloomily down the hill, and had nearly reached the 


«T. CUTHBBET’S TOWBJIl. 


81 


foot of it, when a rather rou^h voice, with an inflection which was 
un-English and strange, addressed him quite close to his ear. 

“Could you oblige me with a light?” 

Vernon, who had his pipe between his lips, stopped, and offered the 
stranger his matchbox. The night was dark, but he was able to 
recognize in this abrupt-mannered person the man he and Meredith 
had seen that evening leaning on the garden wall of the cottage ad- 
joining the Vicarage. There had been something suspicious about 
the stranger’s manner then ; there was something more now. He 
took the proffered matchbox, struck a light, and, instead of applying 
it to the cigar he had ready in his mouth, held it close enough to 
Vernon’s face to get a good view of every feature. 

The clergyman, returning his gaze, grew deadly pale. He did 
not flinch, nowever, but settling his face with the hard determination 
of a man accustomed to bear pain, submitted to the scrutiny in dog- 
ged silence. 

“Thank you,” said the stranger slowly, as he threw away the 
match, which had burnt down, and struck another, with which he 
proceeded to light his cigar. “You are the first person about here 
who has shown what in other parts we should call common civility. 
A rough lot, these Yorkshiremen !” 

“And they don’t always improve much in manners by going 
abroad,” said Vernon, quietly. 

The other remained silent for a moment, peering at him in the 
darkness. Then he spoke again, more courteously than before. 

“ You take me for a Yorkshireman, then ?” 

“Yes; lean hear the Yorkshire burr through some accent you 
have picked up since.” 

“Well, youTe a smart chap for a parson,” said the other, approv- 
ingly. “ You’ll excuse my frankness ; but I’m a plain man, and I 
dare say my manners are none the more polished for fifteen years 
spent among cattle-drovers. They’re not the sort of company to make 
one fit for Buckingham Palace.” 

“I suppose not,” said Vernon. “And you have said good-bye to 
them, and come back to settle down in your native county ?” 

“ For a little while— a year, or maybe two,” answered the stranger 
with great deliberateness. “ I haven’t come over here to sit still and 
twiddle my thumbs for the rest of my life.” 

“ Why, there’s plenty of work to be done here in the old countrv.” 

“Yes, it’s work brings me over here, and hard work too, by what 
I hear,” said the other, looking penetratingly at the clergyman 
through shrewd, half-shut eyes. 

He gave the impression of being able to see in the dark as well as 
any owl, and Vernon felt that he himself was still being subjected to 
the same keen inspection which had been begun by the light of the 
match. He, on his side, could see enough of the stranger’s appear- 
ance to feel curiously interested in him. This abrupt and somewhat 
uncouth person was a man whose age was difficult to guess. That 
he was still in the vigor and prime of life was evident, but it was not 
so certain whether the rugged furrows in his face, and a certain de- 
liberateness of speech and action, were signs of approaching middle 
a«’e, or the result of heavy responsibilities and hard, work begun 


82 


ST. cuthbbrt’s tower. 


early in life. The lower part of his face was covered and much con- 
cealed bv a short beard of a fashion long grown obsolete in England ; 
he was dressed with that sort of solid respectability which disregards 
expense and also the fashion of the moment, while a huge gold watch 
chain, to which was attached a bunch of heavy and handsome seals, 
gave the final touch to a get-up which was nothing if not confidence- 
inspiring. The man lodged both shrewd and honest, particularly 
the former ; Vernon felt every moment more and more eagerly in- 
terested as to the reason of his presence in the village. 

“ You know that we parsons are privileged impertinents ?” began 
Vernon, after a short pause. 

“Yes,” answered the stranger promptly. 

“ Perhaps you know too that 1 have been until to-day ‘deputy 
shepherd’ here at Eishton ?” 

“ I know that too,” admitted the other. 

“ Then perhaps you will let me ask if you are the new tenant of 
Church Cottage?’’ 

“ Well, there’s nothing gained or lost by admitting that I am ; and 
further, I don’t mind telling you that I’d as soon the cottage were a 
little further off the church. One can’t expect to live in the odor of 
sanctity for nothing, and with a parson living next door, and relig- 
ious consolation therefore always turned on, I shall feel, so to 
speak, always under the tap.” 

“You needn’t be afraid of that with my brother,” said Vernon, 
smiling. “I suppose there never was a man with less professional 
cant about him. He’ll talk to a neighbor about his fruit trees, his 
pigs, his poultry, and everything that is his, but never a word of re- 
ligion, unless the subject is introduced by somebody else.” 

“I see ; won’t give professional advice for nothing? Well, I 
respect him for it ; there’s no good in making your wares too cheap. 
Guess your brother and me’ll get along.” 

What could the work be which brought this keen-eyed, prosperous- 
looking colonist — for a colonist it was not difficult to guess that he 
must be — to a sleepy little hole like Eishton, where me commerce 
was restricted to the weekly buying and selling in Matherham mar- 
ket, and to the still humbler traffic in the small wares of half a dozen 
puny village shops ? Vernon was shy of asking him point-blank 
the nature of his work ; indeed, something in the strangers manner 
intimated pretty plainly that he would not have given the required 
information. And no hints sufficed to draw him out. The vicar of 
St. Cuthbert’s made one such attempt, which failed most signally. 

“ You will find also,” said he “ that my brother is a practical man, 
and any help that he can give you in the work you speak of he will 
otter most willingly, I know.” 

But to this speech the first reply of the colonist was a sardonic 
laugh. 

“I daresay he will,” said he, drily, when his hard merriment had 
suddenly ceased. “ For the matter of that, a man with a serious ob- 
ject before him, who has his head screwed on the right way, can get 
help of some sort from everybody he comes nigh to. And so, Mr. 
Brander, I make no doubt I shall get assistance in my work, not 
only from your brother, but from yourself.” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


83 


And with these words, uttered in a tone of some significance, he 
turned on his heel with an abrupt nod, and made his way with char- 
acteristically heavy and deliberate steps towards the gate of the 
cottage. 

Vernon Brander watched the solidly-built figure disappearing in 
the dusk, and then proceeded on his way down the hill in some agita- 
tion of spirit. The shadow of the old crime was creeping up again ; 
the tragedy which ten years had not lived down was reappearing 
with a new and ghastly vividness in the presence of that matter-of- 
fact stranger. Who he might be Vernon could scarcely guess ; what 
the nature of his work was in a quiet village flashed upon him 
with an intuition which left no room for doubt. The feelings pro- 
duced by this thought were not all gloomy ; a certain hungry look, 
which betokened perhaps that even open shame would be welcome 
after ten years of silent ignominy, burned in the clergyman’s dark 
eves as he lifted his head and gazed into the blue-black night sky 
ai)ove him with a piercing intentness which seemed to be trying 
to fathom the mvsteries of the future. 

On reaching the bottom of the hill, he was startled out of his 
reverie by a b^right girl’s voice and a gentle touch on his arm. He 
stopped short and lowered his head dreamily, almost inclined to 
think, in the high state of excitement to which he had been worked, 
that the sweet voice, the kindly touch, were a prophecy of happiness 
rather than the commonplace incident of an every -^ay greeting. 
The next moment, however, he came fully to himself, and found that 
he was in the presence, not only of Olivia Denison, but of her 
father. 

“Mr. Brander, come down from the clouds if you please, and 
leave your next Sunday’s sermon to take care of itself for a little 
while. I want to introduce you to my father.” 

Ml’. Denison, a tall, strikingly handsome man of about fifty years 
of age, with a gentle, kindly face entirely destitute of any trace of 
his daughter’s energy and impulsive frankness, held out his hand 
with a very willing smile. 

“I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brander, and 
to be able to thank you for your great kindness to my little daughter 
here.” 

He patted Olivia’s shoulder affectionately, but it seemed to the 
clergyman, as he looked from the one face to the other, that the 
action was scarcely typical of the mutual relations between gentle, 
vacillating father and quick-witted, active daughter. 

“ Miss Denison is so much more valiant and self -helpful than most 
young ladies that she spurs one up to do more for her than one 
would for others,” said Vernon. 

“Yet this afternoon you would not allow that I could help 
papa,” put in Olivia, reproachfully. 

“ Didn’t I rather suggest that the help you really gave was of a 
■ different kind from what you imagined? ” 

“Shegivesmehelpof all kinds,” said her father affectionately. 

“ She’s my clerk and my comforter ; and I think if the farm-hands 
struck work, she’d take to the plough as naturally as she’s taken to 
the poultry.” 


84 • 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


** Well, I’d certainly try my hand at it,” said the girl laughing. 
“ I suppose the chief qualifications are a steady hand and a correct 
eye, and both those I’ve acquired at billiards.’’’ 

“ My dear Olivia, you musn’t own to playing billiards before a 
clergyman ! ” 

“ And why not, Mr. Denison? ” asked Vernon. “ I love a good 
game of billiards myself ; and the strongest reasons that keep me 
out of old Williams’s billiard-room up at the Manor Hall are old 
Williams’ inability to play a decent game, and his son’s inability to 
make a decent remark.^’ 

Olivia gave an exclamation of disgust at this passing allusion to 
her importunate admirer: Mr. Denison seemed relieved by the 
clergyman’s admission. 

“I’ve not come much in contact with gentlemen of your calling,” 
said he ; “ and I have rather a feeling that I must be on my best 
behavior before them.” 

“A very proper feeling, and one that I wish you could communi- 
cate to some of the gentlemen engaged in mining occupations among 
my parishioners. It’s a much healthier symptom than throwing 
bricks.” 

“Do they throw bricks at you?” asked Olivia, indignantly. 

“Not so many as they used to do,” said Vernon, witn a twinkle in 
his eye, which was, however, not discernible in the increasing dark- 
ness. “ I found a way to cure them of that.” 

“What was that? ” 

“ I threw them back.” 

Mr. Denison did not attempt to disguise the fact that his respect 
for and appreciation of the Church were rising rapidly. It was with 
a cordiality very different from the formal gratitude he had shown 
at the outset that he presently begged the clergyman to do himself 
and his wife the pleasure of lunching with them on the following or 
an early day. 

“ I am very anxious to introduce you to my wife,” said he. “ She 
used to try hard to get me to receive what I irreverently called her 
‘ pet parsons ; ’ but I had heard them preach, and that was enough 
for me. Now you see 1 can bring forward a candidate of my own.” 

“That’s unfortunate, because I can’t come to-morrow; and next 
day is Sunday. And perhaps, if you hear me preach, you may want 
to retract youri^invitation.” 

“Well, we must chance that,” said Mr. Denison, smiling. “ But 
I can trust a par — no, I mean a clergyman, who knows something 
about the tables of slate as well as the tables of stone. Remember, 
we are only poor farmer folk now ; the glory of Streatham has de- 
parted. But we shall make you heartily welcome ; and you must 
forgive the absence of champagne. Now, what day will you come?” 

“May I say this day week?” said Vernon, after considering a 
moment. “ For the next few days I have work to do a long way 
off which will make any sort of meal an impossibility. I sh^l live 
upon bread and coaldust ; and you must not be surprised if I turn 
up with a complexion of Othello, and with a little of his savagery, 
after a week’s intercourse with the blackest and roughest race in 
Yorkshire. ” 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


85 


The following- Friday was, therefore, fixed upon as the day on 
which the Rev. Vernon Brander was to make formal acquaintance 
with Rishton Hall Farm and its new masters. And, with a mutual 
liking which opened a pleasant prospect of future acquaintance, the 
two gentlemen bade each other good-night, and separated. 

But, if they had only known it, there was a very strong woman’s 
will working against any such happv consummation. Mrs. Mere- 
dith Brander, for reasons of her own, had conceived the intention of 
doing what she could to form an impassable bridge between her 
brother-in-law and the household at Rishton Hall Farm. She shrewd- 
ly guessed that her best chance lay through the step-mother ; but 
for a day or two she took no active steps, contenting herself with 
gleaning all the information she could concerning the character and 
nabits of each member of the Denison family. Mr. Denison, she de- 
cided, was not of much account ; Mrs. Denison, a vain, half -educat- 
ed woman, exalted above her natural station, ought, with judicious 
treatment, to be easy to deal with. It was with the handsome, high- 
spirited Olivia herself that the difficulty lay, and Mrs. Brander felt 
that she must proceed with caution. 

In the meantime, the new inmate of the cottage was exciting 
much general interest, and some suspicion. He lived entirely by 
himself, but for such companionship as was afforded him by Mrs. 
Wall, during the two or three hours a day when she jogged slowly 
through his apartments with a broom and a pail, and generally “did 
for” him. He drove such a hard bargain with this lady, and lived 
so simply, that the -belief soon spreaa among the villagers that he 
was very poor, that his big watch-chain was brass, and that his splid 
manner and imperative speech were mere empty “ swagger.” 

The Reverend Meredith Brander was shrewd enough to think dif- 
ferently. There was a weight and solidity about the speech and 
manner of the new-comer which it is not given to the mere waifs and 
strays of the earth to acquire. When he passed an opinion, which 
was .seldom, for he was apparently of reticent disposition, it was 
with the evident belief, not onlv that it was worth listening to, but 
that it would be listened to. The vicar tried hard, in every decent 
and graceful way, to win from him some information as to who he 
was and what he did there ; but his geniality and his personal charm 
had no perceptible effect on the stranger, who kept even his name a 
secret, and steadily declined Mr. Brander’s invitations to him to dine 
at the Vicarage, o^. to play a game of chess with him in the even- 
ings. 

“I’m sure. you must find it dull alone in the cottage at night,” the 
vicar would say to him cheerily ; “for one can §ee with half an eye 
that you’ve been used to an active life, with lots of movement and 
all sorts of society. Why don’t you let yourself be persuaded into 
sitting by a warm hearth instead of a cold one, with a woman and 
children about you 5^ All globe-trotters love the atmosphere of 
women and children.” 

“I can bear with ’em, but I’m not excited about either species,” 
the stranger answered one dav to his neighbor’s persuasions. “ I’ve 
had a wife and children myself ; but I’m bound to say I get on quite 
as comfortably without them.” 


86 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


If this unorthodox speech was meant to shock the vicar, it failed 
of its effect ; for Meredith Brander had no Puritannical horror of 
human frailties and eccentricities, but a cheery belief that they gave 
a healthy outlet to the dangerous humors of the world. 

He discussed the new-comer with his wife, who, however, took 
scarcely enough interest in the subject to set her feminine 
wits to work towards solving the mystery which hung about 
him. 

“I don’t know why you make so much fuss about him,” she said 
rather contemptuously one day, when her husband had been re- 
counting his fruitless efforts to induce the stranger to dine with them. 
“ And I am sure I am thankful that he had the sense not to come. 
To judge by his manners he has been a navvy, who went gold- 
digging and picked up a nugget ; and to judge bv his coming here 
and the way he lives, the nugget was somebody else’s, and he has to 
live perdu until the little affair has blown over.” 

The vicar made no reply to this ; but there was evidently nothing 
convincing to him in his wife’s contempt for the stranger. When he 
spoke again, it was upon a fresh subject. 

“ Vernon’s getting very thick with the new people at the Hall 
Farm. I met him to-day arm-in-arm with papa, and I hear that he’s 
going to dine with them next Friday. Now, papa is a very amiable 
man, though he may not be over-endowed with brains ; but 1 sup- 
pose it is not far-fetched to imagine that there may be another 
attraction.” 

Mr. Brander spoke in his usual light and genial tones, without 
even the touch of seriousness he had shown when treating of this 
same subject with his brother. But the effect of his words on his 
wife was instant and strong. The lines of her handsome mouth grew 
straight and hard, her low, handsome forehead puckered with an 
anxious frown as she said sharply — 

“ He must be stopped.” 

The vicar, raising his eyebrows blandly, stroked his chin, and looked 
out of the window. 

“ Yes, my dear, I admit that it would be very much for the best if 
he could be stopped ; but the question is, howls it to be done? All 
we can do is to persuade, exhort, advise. And haven’t we done it — 
perhaps even overdone it? If Vernon takes it seriously into his head 
that he will marry, why, marry he will ; and I don’t see how 
all the king’s horses, and all the king’s n|en, can prevent 
him.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said his wife, icily. “ But I can.” • 

Her mouth, which was Mrs. Brander’s most eloquent feature, closed 
with almost a snap, and strongly suggested the idea that her interest 
in her brother-in-law’s matrimonial inclinations was not purely 
benevolent. 

“ Well, my dear, there is no denying that it would be for the best 
if you could prevent this rather foolish flirtation with a particularly 
headstrong girl from coming to anything. One can scarcely think 
that this type of girl, for all her bi^auty and high spirit I think we 
must allow her, would make him happy as a wife.” 

“I hadn’t thought of the matter from that point of view,” said his 
wife drily. 


8T. CtTTHBERT’S TOWER. 


87 


The vicar g*lanced rather uneasily at his wife, whose habit of look- 
ing* at thing's from a purely matter-of-fact and practical point of view 
sometimes jarred upon his more easy-g*oing nature. 

He rose from his seat, and prepared to leave the room. 

“ But you should, my dear ; you should,” he said in a gently re- 
proachful tone, as he came to the back of her chair and, gently 
stroking her dark hair with his plump white hand, printed an affec- 
tionate kiss on the smooth white forehead, from which the frown had 
scarcely yet departed. 

As soon as her husband had left the room, Mrs. Brander gave her- 
self up to resolute consideration of a difficult and delicate plan of 
action. After some time she came to a decision, and her face 
cleared. 

“To-day is Wednesday,” she said to herself, glancing* at an almanac 
on her writing-table. “This dinner, or luncheon, or whatever it is, 
is not till Friday. Then I have to-morrow to work in.” 

And she rose with a sigh of relief, and went about her household 
duties with a lighter heart, feeling that she had provided for the ful- 
filment of a very disagreeable task in a rather able manner. 

On the following* afternoon Mrs. Brander, after a short drive in the 
neighborhood, drove her little ponies up to the door of Bishton Hall 
Farm to make her first call upon Mrs. Denison. The latter lady had 
already expressed some indignation that the vicar’s wife had not 
called upon her before, and had even announced her intention of 
being “not at home” to Mrs. Brander, to show her sense of the folly 
of such airs in a woman who ought, by virtue of her husband’s office, 
to be the humblest in the parish. However, what happened when 
the smart-looking little pony-carriage drew up at the door was this : 
the farmer’s wife, after peeping throug’h the dining-room curtains, in 
a flutter of excitement, rushed across the hall to the drawing-room, 
with a hoarse whisper of directions to the approaching housemaid, 
and greeted the visitor, on her entrance, with a mixture of dignity 
and effusiveness, which the vicar’s wife met with her usual, straight- 
forward, matter-of-fact simplicity of manner. Mrs. Brander bad 
brought her ten-year-old daughter with her, less for companionship 
than for the reason, which she would at once frankly have owned, 
that the child’s fragile fairness formed an admirable compliment to 
her own brunette &auty. The child also served to make the intro- 
duction of the two ladies less formal, as her presence resulted in Mrs. 
Denison sending for her own two spoilt children, whom Mrs. Brander 
greeted courteously, but without effusiveness. Indeed, she after- 
wards described them as the two most intolerable little offences 
against humanity she had ever met, and she was much too frank to 
do more than veil this feeling even in the presence of their mother, 
whose caresses of the little Kate and compliments on her beauty evi- 
dently excited in the more sensible of the two mothers no approval 
whatever. 

The vicar’s wife had something in her mind that she considered of 
far more importance than any matter connected with mere children. 
Before very long she brought the conversation round to Olivia Deni- 
son, of whom she took care to speak with such exceedingly moderate 
approbation as she thought likely to suit a sten-mother’s taste. Mrs. 


88 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


JDenison was delighted to meet some one who did not go into the usual 
raptures about the young girl’s beauty and amiability. 

“ Olivia is not a bad sort of girl, ” she admitted, in a patronizing 
tone. “But she has been terribly spoilt by her father. Her temper 
is almost unbearable, and I regret to say that she does not scruple to 
indulge it on my poor children.” 

“ I should think you would be glad to get her married and settled, 
both for her sake and your own, then,” said Mrs. Brander. “ She is 
a showy sort of girl, who ought to marry even here.” 

Mrs. Denison looked for a moment rather embarrassed. 

“ Well, certainly,” she admitted grudgingly. “ A gentleman has 
already made his appearance who seems to be attracted by her— at 
least, so her father thinks. I myself shall not see him till to-morrow, 
when he comes to luncheon here!” 

“ Indeed !” cried Mrs. Brander, raising her eyebrows with great 
apparent interest. “I wonder if it is any one I'know ?” Mrs. Deni- 
son gave a little cough of uncertainty. 

“Well,” she said at last, with some hesitation, “I hope I’m not 
letting out a secret, but it is vour own brother-in-law, Mr. Vernon 
BranJer.” 

Mrs. Brander almost started from her chair in well simulated 
horror and surprise. 

“Vernon !” she exclaimed, in a low voice. “Impossible!” Mrs. 
Denison turned pale. 

“ Why not?” she faltered. “Surely there is nothing against the 
vicar’s brother 1” 

Mrs. Brander hesitated, in much apparent confusion and distress. 

“I would not for the world have been the first to break it to you, 
and even now I scarcely like to tell you. In fact, I will not unless 
you will promise that it shall make" no difference in your treatment 
of the unhappy young fellow,” she said at last. 

Mrs. Denison, shaking with curiosity and alarm, gave the required 
promise in an unconvincing tone. 

“Years ago,” began the vicar’s wife in a tone lowered to escape the 
children’s eari^ “Vernon unhappily became involved in an intrigue 
with the sister of the man who occupied this house, and at last, after 
a quarrel, she mysteriously disappeared, and has not since been 
heard of.” 

“Murdered!” shrieked Mrs. Denison, startling the children, who 
all turned round, and caused her to put sudden constraint upon her- 
self. 

“Hush!” said Mrs. Brander, rather alarmed by the strength of 
her effect. “We don’t like to think that ; we mustn’t think that. 
But there is just enough unpleasantness about the affair. You un- 
derstand,” she murmured confidentially. 

“I should think so!” cried Mrs. Denison, heartily. '“I’ll take 
care that he shall never ” 

The vicar’s wife interrupted her, laying a persuasive, but not 
feeble, hand on the arm of the excited lady. 

“ You will take care never to hint a word of this to him, or to any 
one,” she said, in a low, but exceedingly authoritative, tone. “ You 
remember your promise. Without any measiu*e so strong as that, 


8T. CtrPHBERT’S TOWER. 


89 


we women always know how to give an acquaintance who is in any 
way undesirable not too much cold shoulder, but just cold shoulder 
enough.” 

She rose to go, feeling that she had done enough to accomplish her 
purpose. 

“I think that ought to do it,” she said to herself, with subdued and 
still somewhat anxious satisfaction, as she whipped up her ponies, 
and drove away from the farm. 


CHAPTER Xm. 

The second Mrs. Denison was, unfortunately for her husband’s house- 
hold, one of those ladies who unite in themselves most of woman’s 
typical frailties. One of the most marked of these was a great jeal- 
ousy of any member of her own sex who was younger, better look- 
ingf, or in any way considered more generally attractive than herself. 
This jealousy rose to such a pitch in the case of her handsome step- 
daugnter that she was more pleased at the discovery of the ineli- 
gibility of Olivia’s new admirer than disappointed at the failure of a 
prospect of getting rid of her. 

In spite of her promises to Mrs. Brander, Mrs. Denison of course 
told her husband that night, with some triumph, what a des- 
perate character he proposed to introduce into the bosom of 
nis household on the following day. But her sensational tirade 
produced little effect. Mr. Denison had indeed heard the old story 
since he gave the vicar of Saint Cuthbert’s his invitation ; and, to tell 
the truth, it had rather tended to increase than diminish the liking 
he had taken to the parson. An injudicious liking for the girls was 
a humanising foible which he could understand and excuse. As for 
the disappearance, it was an old story, and might contain an old 
slander. At any rate, even a murderer was better than a milksop. 
So he made light of his wife’s deep-voiced harangue, and pronounced 
his opinion that Mrs. Meredith Brander might find something better 
to do than to spread these foolish stories concerning her brother-in- 
law. 

“ Then you mean to take no steps, in the face of what I have told 
you, to prevent your own hearth from being polluted by the presence 
of a murderous libertine ?” inquired Mrs. Denison, who had the liking 
of a narrow and half-educated mind, in moments of excitement, for 
language equal to the occasion. 

“ W^l, I’m not going, after inviting a man to luncheon, to rush 
out and tell him we have heard a cock-and-bull story about his do- 
ings a quarter of a century ago, and so we can’t let him come in.” 

“ And so Beatrice and Reginald are to get their ideas of the church 
from this man ? I might have known what sort of a clergyman you 
would pick up, who would never receive Mr. Lovekin or Mr. Butter- 
worth I I am told this Mr. Vernon Brander doesn’t even dress like a 
cler^^yman. ” 

“He wears a round collar,” said Mr. Denison ; “ perhaps that will 
save the morals of Beatrice and Reginald. Anyhow, he doesn’t 


90 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


talk up in his head like old Buttermilk, and he doesn’t look so like a 
trussed chicken as that lean-necked Lovekin used to do.” 

“At least there was no scandal about either of those gentlemen,” 
said his wife with dignity. “A girl could trust herself with either 
of them.” 

“She’d have an odd taste if she couldn’t.” 

“Perhaps you have no objection to this man as a suitor for your 
daughter ?” 

“He hasn’t proposed yet.” 

“Or to the chance of her being found dead in a mysterious man- 
ner.” 

“ Perhaps he doesn’t make away with more than seventy -hve per 
cent, of the girls he comes across. Olivia might take her chance,” 
said Mr. Denison, who was getting sleepy, and had had enough of 
the conversation. 

This flippancy silenced her for a time ; but it had for its per- 
manent effect on Mrs. Denison the strengthening of her resolution to 
show this black sheep of the church what a high-principled British 
matron thought of him. 

When, next day, the Reverend Vernon Brander arrived at the 
farm for luncheon, his evil star brought him before Olivia had re- 
turned from her morning walk. He was shown into the drawing- 
room, where, by Olivia’s orders, in honor of his coming, a fire blaz- 
ed in the usually cheerless grate ; for Mrs. Denison, although an in- 
dolent and extravagant housekeeper, practiced from habit a dozen 
uncomfortable and futile little economies, which she had learnt in 
her childhood’s days in her father’s small shop. On learning of the 
guest’s arrival, she made no haste to receive him ; and Vernon was 
left for sometime to an uninterrupted study of the room. 

He decided at once, his thoughts while in this house all taking the 
same direction, that Olivia seldom or never sat in the room, that 
she did not like it, but that, nevertheless she had had something to do 
with the arrangement of it, and that much of the decorative work, 
both of needle and paint brush, with which it was adorned, was done 
by her active fingers. The position of each article of furniture was 
too coldly correct to please her, Vernon, used to the society of a 
woman of taste, felt sure. There was no pretty disorder of open 
book or music, untidy workbasket, with its picturesque overflow of 
feminine trifles ; no disarranged cushion ; no displaced 
chair. The piano was shut— looked even as if it might 
be locked ; the furniture, of the pretty, modern, spindle- 
shanked, uncomfortable type, was evidently scarcely ever 
used. Vernon had time to wander about at his leisure until he 
found something which roused in him more than a passing interest. 
This was a large photographed head of Olivia, which stood by itself 
in a dark corner on a side table in a handsome oak frame. It had 
evidently been taken quite recently, and was an excellent likeness. 
Vernon could not resist the temptation to take it up and carry ij; to a 
window to examine it, as he could not do in the obscurity to which 
it had been condemned. Then, as he was still left undisturbed, he 
put the portrait on a centre table in the full light, and opening an 
album which lay not far off, began hunting for more photograjms of 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


91 


the same girl. He found a page containg four, taken at different 
stages of childhood and gawky young girlhood. Going down on 
his knees beside the large portrait, he held open the album immedi- 
ately underneath it, and began tracing out the development of the 
woman from the child with the deepest interest. 

Absorbed, as his habit was, in the occupation of the moment, he 
did not hear, or did not heed, the approach of footsteps across the 
hall. The door had not been properly closed, and, before he could 
change his position, it had been tnrust open with peremptory touch, 
and he was in the nresence of his hostess. 

Glancing from nim to the portrait on the table, and thence to the 
book in his hand, Mrs. Denison saw or guessed how he was employ- 
ed, and feminine jealousy and dislike increased the horror and indig- 
nation she was nursing against this homicidal clergyman whom her 
husband had chosen to exalt at the expense of her own chosen 
divines. She stood with a stony and most unwelcoming face while 
Vernon, rising hastily with a bright laugh, shut the album, and 
came forward to meet her. 

But she put forward no cordial hand, and vouchsafed him only the 
coldest little nod of the head. Vernon mistook the reason ol this 
reception, confounding the step-mother with the mother, and sup- 
posing that his hostess was in arms at the liberty he had taken in 
thus openly worshipping at the young girl’s shrine. 

“I must apologize for my attitude of apparent devotion,” he said ; 
“but I was so much interested in tracing the development of the 
child as shown here,” and he held out the album, “ into the woman 
as represented here,” and he touched the portrait on the table, “ that 
I did not notice how unnecessarily devout my position had become.” 

“ Very unnecessarily,” assented Mrs. Denison, in a hard and frigid 
tone. 

Poor Vernon looked much disconcerted by this rebuff. 

“I hope you will believe,” he began, almost stammering in his 
confusion, “ that I had no intention of taking a liberty in admiring 
your daughter’s portrait so openly ” 

“ My 6ye/^-daughter’s !” interrupted Mrs. Denison, with a snap. 

“ Oh, ah, yes— I mean your step-daughter’s,”— floundered Vernon, 
more perplexed than ever. If she did not care about the girl, why 
this anger? “You must all be so much accustomed to the admira- 
tion Miss Denison excites that even an eccentric tribute may, I hope, 
be excused.” 

With masculine want of tact he was getting deeper and deeper 
into the mire. Mrs. Denison’s cold, pale, plump face grew every 
moment more forbidding. 

“ The place is not so overrun with admirers of Olivia Denison as 
you seem to imagine,” said she, acidly. “There is nothing the 
matter with the girl’s face ; on the other hand, we are not accustomed 
to consider it anything to rave about. We Londoners like beauty of 
a more delicate type.” 

“ If by delicate you mean puny and pale,” said Vernon, with rash 
honesty, “ you certainly won’t get us up here to agree with you. 
But if you mean reflned, I can’t imagine a face more ideally satis- 
fying- in that respect than Miss Denison’s.” 


92 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


This was the last straw. The one consolation Mrs. Denison always 
had ready for herself on the irritating subject of Oliva’s beauty was 
that her own flaccid paleness made the girl’s bright coloring look 
“vulgar.” She had made her entrance in an aggressive mood; 
every word the unfortunate man had uttered had increased her 
prejudice against him, and had seemed socially designed for her 
annoyance. Inflamed by sullen anger, and rushing to the favorite 
conclusion of the ill-bred that she had been “insult^,” Mrs. Denison 
let loose upon her guest the vials of her wrath. She had just enough 
sense of decency not to get loud in her anger ; but her thin, com- 
pressed lips and coldly venomous ffrey eyes struck a sort of terror 
into the unsuspecting clergyman, before her slow words came like 
the crash of a thunderbolt upon his ears. Mrs. Denison prefaced her 
speech by a hard, short laugh that scarcely moved the muscles of her 
flabby face. 

“I suppose your taste still runs in the same direction that it did 
ten years ago then, and that you admire red-cheeked farmers’ daugh- 
ters as mudi as ever ?” 

“ I don’t understand you, madam,” said Vernon, growing paler 
than ever, if that were" possible, but losing his nervousness in the 
face of this preposterous attack. 

His recovered self-possession irritated Mrs. Denison, who had ex- 
pected him to cower under her onslaught. Although she was already 
growing alarmed at what she had done, she was too sullenlv obstin- 
ate to &aw back, and she strengthened herself, even while her 
breath came faster and a slight flush came over her face, with the 
conviction that she was unmasking villainy, and putting to rout a 
man who was a disp’race to his sacred calling. 

“ Indeed, I should have thought that in this house, of all others, 
your memory would have been better.” 

As Mrs. Denison had remained standing, Vernon had perforce done 
the same. He now took a step to the left, so that the light might 
fall on his face as well as on hers as he answered her. 

“ If you have any accusation to make against me, will you be kind 
enough to make it in so many words, ana not in roundabout hints?” 

He had managed to make the woman feel the full awkwardness of 
the position into which she had brought herself. She hesitated and 
stammered, even though her grey eyes did not flinch from their 
vindictive stare. 

“I — I had heard— everybody has— stories which — a clergyman, 
too! — I should never have thought ” 

“No. People never do think, when they bring a vague charge, 
that they ought to be ready to substantiate it. Will you tell me 
what you heard ?” 

‘ ‘ I am not to be brought to book in this way, ’ ’ said Mrs . Denison, re- 
covering herself, and speaking in a louder voice. “ You cannot be 
ignorant of the stories about you, and you cannot be surprised that 1 
don’t think you a tit person to— to be a friend to— to young girls.” 

There was a pause, which Mrs. Denison found Very awkward. 
She stood with one hand upon a small octagonal table, feeling very 
anxious that this most obnoxious visitor would either go or give her 
an opportunity of going. Vernon, on his side, stood perfectly still 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


before her, staring* at the floor, not with the shamefaced look of re- 
morse and guilt, but with an expression of painful and earnest 
thought. At last he raised his head, and his black eyes, full of pas- 
sion and Are, met her own cold grey ones steadily. 

“ You have heard that I caused the disappearance of a girl ten 
years ago?” said he, not abruptly, but with grave deliberateness. 

“Er— yes— something— yes— of the sort,” answered Mrs. Denison, 
taken aback. 

“ And on sufficiently good authority to warrant your considering 
it true ?” 

“On the very best authority. I never act on any other,” said 
the lady, hastily. 

Vernon looked perplexed, and his tone grew a little more diffident 
as he continued — 

“ Then why not have spared me the humiliation of this reception ? 
Just two lin^ sent by the stable boy would have been enough, and 
you may be sure I should never have troubled you with what, I hope, 
nas been a painful interview to you.” 

Vernon said “ hope,” and even put a slight emphasis on the word, 
as he had a suspicion that his hostess was ill-natured enough to have 
found some enjoyment in his discomfiture. AVith a ceremonious 
and dignified bow he was passing her on his way to the door, when 
a genial voice startled them both, and Mr. Denison entered. 

Not being a man of specially quick perceptions, the new comer 
did not at once see that anything was wrong. He seized Vernon by 
both hands, welcomed him in warm words, and with apologies for 
having been absent on his arrival. 

“And where’s my Olivia ? ” he went on, turning to his wife, now 
observing for the first time the unpromising frown on that lady’s 
face, and believing that his daughter’s neglect was the cause. “ She 
should have been here to help you entertain Mr. Brander.” 

Mrs. Denison began to say something inarticulately, but Vernon, 
in a clear and deliberate voice, took the words out of her mouth. 

“You do Mrs. Denison injustice. Judging from the manner in 
which she has entertained me, I should think she is not only able, 
but^ that she prefers, to do without any assistance.” 

Mrs. Denison looked both confused and alarmed, as she stammered 
something about Mr. Brander’s having misunderstood her. For her 
husband, like many other easy-going men, was subject to occasional 
fits of passionate violence, which, for a woman of Mrs. Denison’s cold 
and somewhat stodgy temperament, had peculiar terrors. 

“ Misunderstood T ” cried he, in an ominous tone of surprise and 
perplexity. 

“ Misunderstood what ? ” 

“ I think the misunderstanding was on the lady’s side,” said Ver- 
non, very calmly, moving a step nearer the door. “For if Mrs. 
Denison really tnought that I could comfortably partake of her hos- 
pitality after being accused by her of unspecified crimes, she made a 
mistake Avhich I must now beg to leave her leisure to recognize.” 

Without giving Mr. Denison, who had grown during this speech 
absolutely livid with anger, time to answer him, Vernon Brander 
hurried out of the room and out of the house. 


94 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


But Mr. Denison’s outbursts of passion, if violent, were short lived. 
After having inveighed for a few minutes furiously against woman’s 
talkativeness and woman’s indiscretion, he allowed himself to be 
talked round by his wife, into believing that what little she had said 
to the Reverend Vernon touching his former delinquencies, he had 
brought upon himself by a very impertinent expression of his ad- 
miration for Olivia. Being at heart a man of peace, and unable to 
retain displeasure with any one for long, Mr. Denison had subsided 
into an uneasy and conscience-pricked silence on the subject, when 
Olivia’s footsteps, bounding through the hall with the agility of 
youth and high spirits, startled both husband and wife. 

The girl sprang into the room like a flash of sunshine, but being 
far more acute than her father, the first glance from his face to that 
of his wife showed her that something was wrong. 

“ Where’s Mr. Brander ? ” she asked abruptly, already with a dash 
of suspicion in her tone. “ Lucy told me he’d been here nearly half 
an hour.” 

Mr. Denison walked away to the nearest window without speaking ; 
Mrs. Denison leaned back in the easy chair which she was occupying 
with an assumption of easy dignity meant to conceal the uneasiness 
which she felt. For to displease Olivia seriously, much as the elder 
woman might affect to ignore the girl’s feelings, was a very different 
thing from displeasing her good-tempered father. 

“ Mr. Brander has been and has gone,” said Mrs. Denison, with an 
air of offended dignity. “He has proved himself unworthy the 
honor of being admitted as a friend into my family, and I never wish 
to hear his name mentioned again.” 

“ You don’t think I’m to be satisfied like that,” said Olivia, very 
quietly. Then she stood, with hands clasped and passionate, earnest 
eyes, gazing at her step-mother’s doughy face with a steadfastness 
which caused that lady to “ fidget ” uneasily, and thus to destroy the 
effect of her efforts at dignified composure. 

“ You’re forgetting yourself strangely, Olivia, to speak to me in 
that manner. I am mistress here, and I am not going to be dictated 
to by a chit of a girl.” 

“ You have said something, done something, to send him away ; I 
am sure of it,” said the girl with breathless earnestness, not heeding 
her step-mother’s fretful protest. “ I will know what it is ; I have a 
right to know. Papa,” she went on, turning towards her father 
entreatingly, and speaking in a voice that grew softer the moment 
she addressed him, “ you know Mr. Brander has been kind to me, 
most unselfishly, disinterestedly kind— and just when I wanted help 
and kindness. You would not let him be rudely treated, would you 
You would never allow your guest to be insulted, I am sure. Tell 
me what has happened ; I must know. Do tell me ; do satisfy me. I 
am not curious ; I am miserable until I know.” 

She had crossed the room to him, put affectionate hands on his 
shoulders, and was looking into his face with tender pleading, far 
more irresistible even than his wife’s peremptory reasoning had 
been. He could not look her in the face, but frowned, and made 
feeble and futile attempts to get rid of the clinging fingers. Mrs. 
Denison’s hard voice then struck upon their ears. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


95 


“ Really, Edward, you’re not g'oing* to allow yourself to be talked 
over in that way, I hope. Surely you and I are the best judges as 
to who are, andT who are not lit acquaintances for our children. And 
when the wife of the vicar of the parish herself warns me that such 
and such a man is a criminal of a sort not lit to be admitted into a 
decent house, 1 don’t think anyone can dispute that we have authority 
for what we do.” 

“ The wife of the vicar ! Mrs. Brander !” exclaimed Olivia in be- 
wilderment. “ She told you that about her brother-in-law?” 

Mrs. Denison did not answer. She was ready to bite her tong'ue 
out for her indiscretion in mentioning’ her informant’s name. For 
she knew Olivia’s impulsive nature, and was very much afraid that 
the girl would get her into trouble with the vicar's wife, with whom 
she was anxious to stand well. For Mrs. Brander’s well-bred sim- 
plicity of manner, and a certain air of being queen of the district 
which years of homage had given her, had made a strong 
impression on the ex-governess. Olivia read the truth in her 
step-mother’s confusion, and a new spring of anger bubbled up in 
her heart. 

“ The wicked, treacherous woman !” she panted, scarcely aloud, but 
with great vehemence. “ He shall know who are the friends who 
spread these stories about him.” 

She was turning impulsively towards the door, drawing on as sho 
did so, one of the gloves she had taken oft', Avhen Mrs. Denison, with 
unaccustomed agility, sprang up from her chair and laid a heavy 
hand on the girl’s arm. 

“Where are you going?” she asked, peremptorily, with much 
anxiety. 

Olivia looked down at her face with a resolute expression, which 
made her step-mother’s hands tingle to box her ears. 

“ I am going to tind Mr. Vernon Brander, to tell him of the 
slanders that are being spread about him ai.d who .spreads them, and 
I am going to apologize most humbly for the treatment he has re- 
ceived in uiis house this morning.” 

If Olivia had trusted henself for another minute in Mrs. Dcni.son’s 
clutches, the last ray of that good lady’s self-restraint would have 
been torn away, and she would have recalled h(*-r old methods of 
school room rule bv bringing her plumpiiand in sharp contact with 
the girl s cheeks. "But Olivia was toocjuick for her. AVith an agile 
twist of her imprisoned arm she freed lierself, and shaking her head 
at her father, who was crossing the room to follow her, she left the 
room even more rapidiv than Vernon Brander had done. 

Olivia flew along theVoad towards St. Curhbert’s as if pursued. The 
thought that the man who had dojieso much both tohelnand protect her 
should have been e.xposed to the vulgar insults of the tyrant of her 
father's household threw her Into a frenzy of anger and humiliation 
for which she found no balm. With her indignation against Mrs. 
Meredith Brander, on the other hand, there mingled an unacknowl- 
edged consolation. She did not like that lady ; she was also uncon- 
sciously jealous of her strong hold upon her brother-in-law. There- 
fore the discoverv of Mrs. Brander's perfidy, whicn could not fail to 
weaken that hold, had an element which was not unwelcome. JBut 


96 


ST. cutiibert’s tower. 


to do the g’irl justice, this selfish feeling* was in very small proportion 
to tiie passionate wish to make some amends to him for the inaig’iiity 
he had just sufTerod. 

It has been a dull morning* and now the rain was beg*inning* to 
fall, and to envelope thn hills far away on the left with a haze which 
by its density threatened something' worse than a light shower. In 
her impulsive eag’erness to start on her errand of consolation, she 
had not thought of the mundane precaution of taking;* an umbrella, 
and although she was now not too much absorbed to regret the omis- 
sion, she M\as far too inijiatient to go back. As the rain fell faster she 
began to run, and when she came in sight of the ruinous church, 
Standing still far away in the vallev below her, partly hidden bv 
the gaunt and cheerless Vicarage, she had to pause for breath, al- 
though by that time her clothes were wet through. Through the 
veil of rain she caught sight of a man who was making Ins way 
towards St. Cuthbcrt’s by a sliorter path, over the m(*adows and 
through the straggling trees which at this point skirted the hill ori 
the south side of the vnillev. It must be \l*rnon Brander, she felt 
sure, returning passionately angry or deeply humiliated, from his 
unlucky visit to the farm. 

Olivia wanted to overtake him before he could reach his house ; so 
with her usual impetuous rashne.ss, she broke through the hedge on 
her left, ran, tumbled, and sIi))iXHl down the hill, which was slip- 
pery with wet grass, scrambh^d through the damp, dead underwood 
which grew between the trees at the nottom, and. running for the 
rest of the way, got into the lane leading to the church, and, turning 
the last sharp corner in a brilliant sjnirt, ran into the man she was 
pursuing as be leaned against the churclivard gate. 

And it was not Vernon Brandiir after all ! 

The man had turmxl, hearing the rapid footsteps behind him, and 
the change in the girl's face, as she learnt her mistake, was far too 
pronounced for him not to see easily that she was disappointed. 

“ I’m the wrong man, missee. I’m afraid,” said he good humoredly, 
and in a manner perfectly free h’om offence. 

Olivia knew that this was the new tenant of Rishton Church Cot- 
tage ; she had seen him on the previous Sunday, not indeed inside 
the church, of which he had confessed to the vicar a frank abhor- 
rence, but leaning over the low wall of his garden to watch the 
worshippers, as they left the building, with half-shut, critical eyes. 

“ No,’' said she, apologetically ; “ I thought it w{is the vicar.” " 

A curious look, partly of interest and partly, as it seemed to her, 
of pity came over his face. 

‘‘The vicar of this rat run?” he asked, with a nod of his head in 
the direction of the church. 

“The Vicar of St. Cuthbert’s,” answered the girl with some dig- 
nity. 

Her ideas on the snbject of conversation with strangers were 
strictly conventional, but besides the universal intercist and curiosity 
which Che mystery surrounding the new comer excited, she felt a 
sudden conviction that the attraction which brought him to this re- 
mote neighborhood was not unconnected with Vernon Brander. 

The stranger gave a sort of grunt, and nodded siguiheantiy. 


ST. cutubert’s tower. 


97 


“ I thoTig-ht so,” said he. 

Olivia turiK'd away, with a deep flush in her cheeks, much vexed 
with herself for having- g-iveii the man an opening for a remark 
which seemecf highly impe.rtinent. She was making boldly for the 
Vicarag-e when she heard the stranger’s voice ag-ain. He had fol- 
lowed and was walking beside her. 

“Look here, Miss Denison,” he began, in a serious and respectful 
tone, “ although I am a stranger to you, you are not one to me, foi- 
I’ve studied you since I’ve been in this neighborhood, as I’ve studied 
all the rest of my neighbors. And if 1 thought of them all as 1 do of 
you. it would V)e"better for some of them.” 

Olivia turned suddenly towards him, and stopped, impressed by 
his tone, and tilled with dread of what was coming. 

“Don’t be frightened,” he continued, in a voice which, for the 
rough man, was almost t^entle. “You’re a fine, high spirited, gen- 
erous girl, and 1 want to be able to say to you that 1 will never harm 
you nor yours.” 

“ You want to be able to say it !” she exclaimed in bewilderment. 

“Yes. As long as you remain Miss Denison I can say it, but if 
you were to shut your ears to everybody’s warnings and marry the 
Vicar of St. Moulcler-in-the Hole here, I couldn’t.” 

“ Why, who are you y” cried the girl, in a tremulous voice. 

“ Ned Mitchell, brother to Nellie Mitchell, who wasdone away with 
here ten years ago. And I’m here to make the man who murdered her 
swing for it !” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Olivia Denison was by no means a nervous or weak-minded girl. 
On learning that tin; man who stood before her was the brother of 
Nellie Mitchell, she did not scream or stagger back, or give any out- 
ward 'sign of the shock she felt, except to bite her lips, which had 
beg’un to tremble and twitch, as she bowed her head in acknowledg- 
ment of the information. But, none the less, she was instantly 
possessed by a much greater terror than if this unexpected avenger 
had been a’fierce-looking personage with flashing eyes and a melo- 
dramatic roll in his voice. She felt that there would be no softening 
this hard-headed colonist, who took the punishment of his sister’s 
betrayer as “all in the day’s work,” and announced his intention of 
getting him hanged with the same dispassionate decision with which 
he would have resolved on the sale of a flock of sheep. And at the 
same time she felt for the first time fully conscious that even the ab- 
solute knowledge of Vernon Brander’s guilt would not sufiflee to stifle 
her interest in him. 

Quietly as she took his sensational announcement, Ned Mitchell 
was shrewd enough to know that the young lady was greatly 
shocked by it, and her bearing filled him with genuine admiration. 
But his first attempt to soften the blow was scarcely well 
worded. 

“CJome, Miss Denison, there are as good fish m the sea as ever 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


came ont of it, and a young* lady of your spirit is too good to waste 
half a sigh on any man, let alone a parson. There’s nobody fit to 
mate with you iif this played-out old country ; what you want is a 
lad who can sit a buckjumper, or ride five hundred miles without a 
wink of sleep except what he gets in the saddle. That’s your 
sort." 

“ Is.it?” said Olivia tranquilly, “perhaps so. But I assure you, 
Mr. Mitchell, I can exist a few more years without a mate, at all, 
and that it is no frantic desire to get married which makes me anxious 
to see one of my friends cleared of a charge of which I believe him to 
be innocent.” 

“ Well said. That’s what a friend should believe. But if your 
friend has quite a free conscience about St. Cuthbert’s churchyard 
and anything that may ever have taken place in it, can you suggest 
a reason for the gate’s being alwavs locked?” 

“I suppose it is to prevent the sheep getting in,” said Olivia, re- 
gretting the feeble suggestion the next moment. 

“Certainly the sheep can’t pick a lock, but, then, neither could 
they lift an ordinary latch.” 

“*^00 you suppn.se that no churchyard is ever kept locked unless a 
murder has ever been committed in it?” 

“ No. But I think it strange that since I have been here, prowl- 
ing about, let us say, not only has the gate been mended where it 
had grown weak in one of the hinges, but two breaches in the wall, 
by which one could have got into the churchyard without the help of 
tlie gate, have been repaired.” 

Olivia glanced towards the place where she had got in over the 
broken wall on a former occasion. The gap had been stopped up, 
and some of the earth underneath on the outside had been carted 
away to make a forced entrance more difficult. 

“Well,” said she, her cheeks flushing, “and is there anything 
singular in the fact of a vicar’s having his churchyard wall re- 
paired ?” 

“ When the churchvard is so orderly and so beautifully kept as 
this one?” added Mr. iMitchell, with a derisive laugh. “ Yes, 1 think 
there is something siim-ular in it. And what makes it to my mind 
more singular still is that when I congratulaied the Reverend Vernon 
Brander on these repairs he denied all knowledge of them.” 

“Then ho certainly knew nothing about them,” said Olivia, 
promptly. 

Mr. Mitchell, for the first time, gave her a glance such as he was 
accustomed to bestow on the ordinary run of women — a glance full 
of resigned and lenient contempt. 

“ Well, you are thorough-going, at least,” he said, at last, patron- 
izingly. “But it is a curiously lucky thing for the vicar, whose 
house is the only place that commands a view of the churchyard, 
mind you, that I can be seen wandering about the place one day, and 
find I'can’t get in the next.” 

“Very likely his housekeeper saw you, as you say, prowling 
about, and, considering your manner" suspicious, had the repairs 
made without thinking it worth while to consult her master.” 

“ Not likely, ” said Mr. Mitchell, with a shake of the heacL “ How- 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


99 


ever, I’ll not keep you here in the rain trying* to persuade an old 
hand like me that black’s white. Do you know that your clothes are 
wet through ?” 

This was quite true. Recalled to consciousness of physical dis- 
comfort, Olivia shivered. 

“Yes, I must make haste home,” she said. Then, with a hopeless 
glance at his face, as if she despaired of her words having any effect, 
she added, “You are too suspicious. You are so shrewd that you 
think you can’t make a mistake. But for all your cleverness, my 
belief m the friend I know and trust is just as likely to be right as 
your belief to the contrary.” 

“ Well, well, I hope it may be. Don’t think I have any ill-feeling 
towards this Vernon Brander as a man ; it is the betrayer of my 
sister that I’m after, and if Vernon Brander isn’t the guilty party, 
why, he’ll have nothing to fear from mo. Good-afternoon, Miss 
Denison.” 

Mr. Mitchell raised his hat, with a shrewd and not unkindlv smile 
into the girl’s beautiful, agitated face, turned on his heel, and began 
to make nis way, with his usual stolid and leisurely manner, up the 
hill towards the high road. 

Left to herself, Olivia, who was by this time too thoroughly 
drenched to trouble herself about a few minutes more or less in" the 
rain, debated what she should do. The heat of the impulse which 
made her dash out of doors on learning the insult to Vernon had now 
departed, and some of Mr. Mitchell’s words had 'hurt her maidenly 
modesty to the extent of making her shy of visiting the clergyman 
at his house. On the other hand, she had now, in the menaces of 
the colonist, another reason for putting him on his guard. When 
Mr. Mitchell had disappeared from her sight at the first bend in the 
lane, she beg-aii to follow in the same direction slowly, her mind not 
yet made up. An unexpected incident decided her. 

Glancing furtively at the cheerless windows of the gaunt stone 
house', Olivia saw, at one of them, the figure of an old woman in a 
black dress and widow’s cap, who watched the girl with evident in- 
terest, and at last opened the front door and began making signs to 
her. Olivia stopped. The signs were plainlv an invitation to come 
in. She advanced as far as the gate, and then the old woman ad- 
dressed her. 

“Won’t you step inside a minute, out of the rain? Come in, come 
in ; there’s nobody about but me.” 

This decided Olivia, who recognized the speakeras Vernon’s house- 
keeper, whom she had seen at liishton Church on Sundays, So she 
walked up the stone-pa \^ed path, and thanking the old woman for the 
proffered shelter, followed her into a hall, the desolate and bare ap- 
pearance of which corresponded perfectly with that of the exterior of 
the house. 

“1 think you’d better come into my room. Miss, though it s really 
only the back kitchen,” said the housekeeper. “But Mr. Brander, 
being out to-day, lunching up at the Hall Farm, as you know. Miss, 
there’s no fire in his room.” 

Olivia assenting gratefully, the old woman led her past the open 
door of a comfortless and dingy room on the left, which might have 


100 


ST. CUTHBEET'S TOWEE. 


been either dining*-room dr study, past a second door on the same 
side, which was closed, to a small apartment at the back, where a 
brig’ht tire, a cat on the hearthrug, a bird in its cage, and a cushion- 
ed rocking chair, gave a look of comfort which was a welcome relief 
to the cheerless aspect of the rest of the house. An open door led 
into the kitchen, and gave a pleasant glimpse of fire-light shining 
on well-polished pots and pans. 

The housekeeper broke into ejaculations of alarm as she touched 
the girl’s wet garments. 

“Bless me ! you’re soaked to the skin !” she cried, beginning in- 
stantly to divest Olivia of her outer garments with a vigorous hand. 
“ Come upstairs with me. Yes, you must ; it would be manslaughter 
on my part to let you stay five minutes in those clothes. I believe 
you’ve caught a fever already.” 

Fatigue, excitement, cold, and wet had done their work on Olivia, 
who began to look and to feel ill. She resisted for a few moments 
the housekeeper’s well-meant endeavors to drag her to .the door, but 
yielded at last, and suffered herself to be taken upstairs, and arrayed 
from head to foot in garments belonging to her hostess which, if 
neither well fitting nor fashionable, were at least dry. Mrs. Warm- 
ington, for that, slie informed Olivia, was her name, assured the 

f irl that she would have plenty of time to have her outer garments 
ried, and to get away home before Mr. Brander returned, as it was 
his day for visiting an outlying part of his straggling parish. 

“And,” she said, “ he will no doubt go straight on from the Hall 
Farm after luncheon, and won’t be back here until teatime.” 

“ Without having had anything to eat,” thought poor Olivia. 

She let herself be led downstairs again, noting, as she did so, that 
no visible corner of the house, except such parts of it as came within 
the housekeeper’s special province, was one whit more comfortable 
or homelike than the bare hall. A pang of acute pity for the lonely 
man pierced her heart as she decided that, whatever sin he might 
earlier in life have been guilty of, no expiation could be more com- 
plete than his dreary life in this desolate house, with only an old 
woman for companion. And Mrs. Warmington did not strikeheras 
the most devoted servant or the most sympathetic personality in the 
world. She had “seen better days,” evidently; but although she 
did not flaunt the fact unduly, it perhaps gave her a little additional 
aggressiveness of manner, so that, in spite of her kindness, Olivia 
felt that one must be hard up for companionship to seek Mrs. Warm- 
ington ’s society. The girl was indeed struck by the difference be- 
tween the warm kindliness the old woman showed to herself and the 
rather off-hand manner in which she alluded to her employer. She 
began to puzzle her head as to the reason of this, and grew very 
anxious to find out in what esteem the clergyman was held by his 
solitary dependent. After a little conversation by the fireside, dur- 
ing which the warmth came gradually back to her shivering limbs, 
she put out a feeler in this direction. 

“It’s a very lonely life that you and Mr. Brander le.ad up here,” 
she said, looking into the fire, and hoping tjiat she did not betray in 
which of the two lives she took the grean^r interest. 

“ You may well say lonely. It’s a godsend to see a human crea- 


ST. CtJTHBERT’S TOWES. 


101 


tnre about. I could have blessed the rain to-day for bringing you 
here.” 

“ I suppose it’s even worse for you than for Mr. Brander, because 
he has his parish duties ?” 

“ Well, I’m of a more contented turn of mind than he,” said 
Mrs. Warmington, with the same coolness that she had previously 
shown on the subject of her master. “ But, then, to be sure, perhaps 
I’ve a better conscience.” 

There was silence for some minutes. Mrs. Warmington gave the 
impression of being ready to be Questioned, but Olivia was shy of 
taking advantage of the fact. The housekeeper glanced at her from 
time to time, as if hoping for some comment on her words. At last, 
as none came, she looked her visitor full in the face, and said — 

“ 1 see you know the story. Every one does, more or less ; though 
there are not many who know the rights of it as well as 1 do.” 

Olivia’s heart seemed to stand still. 

“ But you don’t think him guilty burst from her lips, in a tone 
which expressed more anxiety than she gues.sed. “ You know him. 
perhaps, better than anybody ; you know that he isn’t capable oi 
anvthing so cruel, so base.” 

Mrs. Warmington pur.sed up her withered lips in a judicial man- 
ner, pokexl the fire, and [)ut on a fresh supply of coal, all with an air 
of being the chosen keeper of some great mystery. Olivia watched 
her, but without asking any more questions ; she felt heartsick, 
miserable. Other people might guess ; this old woman probably 
knew. At last the housekeeper solemnly broke silence. 

“ It’s hardly a tale for a young lady's ears : rnirhaps it almost seems 
like a breach of confidence on my part to touch upon my employer’s 
secrets at all. But he has never made a confidante of me, and if 
there’s any one in the world who might use the knowledge I possess 
to Mf. Brander’s disadvantage, I know it is not you.” 

The young girl felt a shame-fac(‘.d flush ri.sing in her cheeks. This 
woman spoke in a significant tone, implying that the depth of the 
interest Olivia took in her master was not unknown to her. The girl 
turned her head a little away, and stared at the tire with statuesque 
stillness while her companiori continue-d— 

“To begin with, I may tell you that the Branders are distant re- 
lations of mine. It does not make me love them the more, but it 
will prove to you that I have no interest in making them out to be 
worse than they are.” 

Olivia as.sentexl with a slight bend of the head. 

“I don’t deny that I have noticed the interest you take in my 
master, and as you are an inexperienced young girl, with some 
warm-hearted, and peihaps rather quixotic, notions, I think it right 
to put you in possession of the facts of this business, as I know 
them.” 

Olivia glanced at the woman, and saw that, in spite of the diy 
hardne.ss of her manner, there was a kindly look in her eyes. Indeed, 
Mrs. Warmington, whose h(*art was a Itttle parch(*d towards the 
world in general, had taken a fancy to the bright-cheeked, handsome 
ffirl. 

° “i suppose you know,” she went on, “that the Branders prida 


102 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


themselves tipon 'being' what is called a ‘good* family. 
You will also know that in all ‘good’ families there is 
generallv more than one ‘ bad lot.’ Although I am a connection of 
theirs, f must confess that there has been quite an exceptional 
number among the Branders. And, awkv'ardly enough, it happens 
that the family interest lies chiefly in theCIiurch. The Branders 
have been clergymen for generations, generally with little credit to 
themselves. Here and there has been an exception, but never more 
than one in a generation ; the exception in our time is Meredith. 
His two brothers, Vernon and one who is rmw in China, showed from 
the very first how unfit they were for their calling. 1 don’t blame 
them much ; I don’t praise ]\teredith much ; their temperaments are 
different, and it can scarcely be called their fault that only one of 
the three is a round peg irr a round hole. Well, you know that 
both my master and his brotlnir, Meredith, fixed their choice on the 
same lady, and that Meredith married her. After that, Vernon, who 
was no particular credit to his cloth before, grew wilder than ever. 
It was not long before his constant visits to the Hal! Farm became 
the talk of the village ; for Nellie Mitchell hadn’t the best name in the 
world. Before long it was rumored about that the girl had been 
seen, late in the eveninj^, in ilie neighborhood of St. Cuthbert’s.” 

“ Did you live here tnen?” abruptly asked Olivia, who had been 
sitting in an attitude of straining attention, with close-shut lips and 
heaving breast. 

“ I had beim here six weeks when— when the end came. Tongues 
had l)een going fa.sttn* than ever for the last week or two, and, of 
course, some of the talk had reached my ears. I knew, from little 
things 1 had seen— a portrait, a glove, slight changes in his manner 
when speaking of her — that my master liad not yet got over his 
fancy for Mrs. Brainier, married though she was. T^ien I heard 
whispers of Nellie .Mitcltell's jealou.sy ; how she flaunted past the 
vicars wife in the churchyard on Sunday with aswing in her walk 
and a toss of her head which were almost insults ; of letters which 
were left in a wood close by, some of which fell into strange hands. 
I was shocked liy the.se rei)orts, but I look(;d upon them as partly gos- 
sip, and considered that, in any ca.se, tluiy were no business of "mine. 
One evening in August I was 'standing at the window of the front 
room watching thesun.set, when I saw Nellie Mitchell coming down 
the lane past the house. Something in the girl's appearance and 
manne.r struck me as it had never uone before. It was not the first 
time that I had st'Cn her come this way ; but on all previous occa- 
sions it had been after dark that I had" seen a figure which I believed 
to be hers slinking past hurriedly, as if anxious to escape notice. 
Now the girl walked boldly— one would have said defiantly— with a 
liushexl face and an expre.ssion of reck less resolution. She carried in 
her hand a small white packet, and, as she came opposite the house, 
she stopp(xl. and, turning .so as to face the gate, deliberately untied 
the string orribbon which held her little parcel together, and counted 
the letters of which it consisted. One, two, three, four, five, six, 
seven. ' I could see her red lips move as she counted them out to her- 
self, and then slowly tied them up again with one angry and deter- 
mined look up at the windows of this house from her bold black eyes. 


ST. cuthbekt’s towee. 


103 


She did not see me ;hiit it was evident that if a hundred people had 
been staring- at her out of these empty, shiitterless windows, it 
would have been all the same to her. 1 was shocked, horror-stricken. 
For the first time the full meaning of all the ugly rumors 1 had 
heard became plain to me: my master had been this womaiTs lover I” 

Olivia shivered at the woman’s words, which seemed doubly 
shocking from the matter-of-fact, somewhat hard tone in which they 
were spoken. 

“As the evening went on, I grew more and more re.stless and un- 
easy. Certain noi.ses I had heard from time to time in the night, 
which I had put down to the rats, came back to my mind. It now 
seemed to me that they might have been due to another cause. 
They had come from one of the front unii.scd rooms. If thoughts of 
evil now came into my mind, how could I be blamed? My master 
was away, doing his rounds in the parish ; he had told me ne should 
not be back till late. All the rest of the evening I watched from the 
window, but I did not see the girl return. The thought came into my 
mind to go out and try and find out where she had gone ; whether 
she was really, as the" villagers’ hints .suggested, waiting for some 
one in thechurchyard. But 1 was afraid ; Iliad no mind to interfere 
in other people’s affairs : it has alwavs been my custom not to do so. 
For a young girl like you 1 am ready to break my rule but not for 
such as Nellie Mitchell.” 

And Mrs. Warrnington’s lips closed pharisaically. 

“Nine o’clock came, ten o’clock, hali-[)ast ten ; it was quite dark. 
Then, as I was walking up and down, with an attack of what I call 
the ‘fidgets,’ there came through the open windows a scream so 
shrill, so horrible, that I stagg*ered into the nearest chair as if a 
blow from a strong man’s arm had sent me there. ‘Nellie Mit- 
chell'! Nellie Mitchell !’ I felt my. self saying, hoarsely. Then I think 
I faintt^d, for what I remember next was to find myself hanging 
over the chair with my head on Mr. Vernons writing table. I got 
up, at first scarcely knowing what it was that had startled me. I 
was in utter darkness ; in my first spasm of horror I had thrown 
down the lamp. As I groped about to find a match, my fingers 
trembling so much that they were clumsy and almost powerle.ss, I 
heard a footstep outside the "door. It was my master, Vernon Bran- 
der ! 

“I stopped in my search, and drew back instinctively, as I heard 
him fumbling at tiie handle of the room door. It. seemed such a long 
time before he came in that the whole of this ugly story— the 
villagers’ gossip, the sight I had seen, and the sound 1 had hi-ard that 
evening— all seemed to pa.ss quite slowly through my mind as I 
stood there waitijig for him to come in. At last the door opened 
slowly, and my ma.ster stood in the room with me. I heard his 
breatb coming in guttural gasps ; I heard the table creak and the 
objects on it rattle as he came forward and leaned upon it. I almost 
shrieked, middle-a.i^ed, matcer-o -fact woman that I was, Avhen he 
suddeidv whispered, in a hoarse voice — 

“ ‘Who’s that?’ 

“I summoned self-command enough to answer, pretty steadily— 

“ ‘It’s 1, sir.’ 


104 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


“ He g^ot up from the table, and turned towards the door ; but an 
impulse seized me to learn what I could then. I remembered with a 
sort of inspiration, where the matches were, found them, and struck 
a light. -I was just in time to see my master’s hands as he opened 
the door : they were stained with blood ! 

“ ‘ What have you done ? You have killed her I ’ I hissed out 
close to him. 

“ * Before Heaven I have not ! ’ he answered, huskily ; but hia 
teeth were chattering, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. 

“Then, covering His face with his hands with a groan, he turned 
and staggered out of the room. As he did so he droppea something, 
which I picked up and examined without scruple. 1 admit that this 
was high-handed, but when you are almost a witness to a foul action, 
you make new laws for yourself on the spur of the moment. 
By this time I had quite recovered myself. I lit a candle, 
and read every word of the letters which Nellie Mitchell had 
flourished before my face that evening. There were no names used. 
The gentleman had" insisted upon caution, as the girl over and over 
again complained. For these letters were hers, and as each succes- 
sive one was full of more and more bitter reproaches against her 
lover, I gues.sed that it was the return of her letters which had at last 
goaded the girl to desperation. Her jealousy of Mrs. Brander was 
expressed on every page, and the last contained a threat of exposure. 
It was evident that, whatever the girl’s character might have been, 
she was bitterly in earnest over this passion. In spite of myself, the 
burning words, guilty though they were, lilled me with a" kind of 
pity, increased by the awful susfiicion which now possessed me. I 
felt the hot tears fall upon the papers in my hands, and I was so ab- 
sorbed in my reading that I did not hear my master come into the 
room again ; for the door had been left open. When at last I heard 
his tread close behind me 1 started, but (lid not attempt to hide how 
I was engaged. He did not seem startled to see the letters in my 
hand, but, taking them from me, he read them right through, one 
by one, and then placed them in his desk. His face was as white as 
that of a dead man, and the hands he had just washcid were livid 
round the nails. He looked the wreck of the man who had gone out 
to his work that afternoon in the August sunshine. When he ha(i 
shut his desk he turned very calmly to me and said — 

“ ‘ You will leave me to-morrow, of course ; but you had better 
not go very far, as there will be an inquiry— an in^uiist ; all sorts of 
things— and your evidence will be important— against me.’ 

“Those last two words decided me. My life was my own. This man 
was mv own kin. I answered, as calmly as he had spoken to me — 

“ ‘ You are my ma.ster, sir, and of my own blood. I shall stay 
with you as long as you plea.se to keep 'me. If your conscience is 
bad, I shall be an everlasting prick to it ; if it is clt*ar, as I pray 
Heaven, you will have at least one friend when you most want 
one.’” 

Olivia started up all on fire. 

“ That was goocl of you !— that was noble of you ! ” she cried, in a 
trembling voice. 

“ Not at all. It is just the sort of thing a woman liltes to do. A 


ST. CUTHBERT^S TOWER. 


105 


little cheap qnixotism — that is all : and I secured myself a home for 
life, you see. I was no young ^irl that I should be afraid of him.” 

It was impossible to tell whether it was the cvnicism or the kindli- 
ness which predominated in Mrs. Warmington's motives, or whether 
they were there in eoual proportions. As Olivia stared wonderingly 
into the withered ana somewhat inexpressive face, the housekeeper 
rose somewhat abruptly from her seat. 

“That is Mr. Brander’s step !” she exclaimed as she turned to the 
door. “ If you stay here, you will be able to slip out presently with- 
out his seeing you.” 

With these words, leaving Olivia no time to protest, or even an- 
swer her, the housekeeper left the room, closing the door behind 
her. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Olivia’s first thought, as the door closed on Mrs. Warmington, was 
to follow her out and make a dash for freedom. But as she started 
up with this impulse, a sliding movement on the part of the garments 
she wore reminded her that she was not in walking trim;, and a 

f iance at the gilt-framed butmildewv glass which adorned the house- 
eeper’s mantelpiece showed her such a comical figure that the in- 
stincts of maidenly coquetry would never have allowed her to risk a 
meeting with Vernon Brander in that odd disguise. 

Mrs. Wannington’s figure was of the straight-up-and-down sort — 
long in the body and short in the limbs. Being a lady of frugal 
bent and careful habits, .she wore her dresses for so long a time that 
they 'acquired enough of the shape and character of the owner to im- 
part the same characteristics to any subsequent wearer. Therefore, 
Olivia’s glance ill the mirror showed her a woman in dark-brown 
stuff of slipshod fit, with a substantial square waist, and baggy 
sleeves too short in the wrist. After one despairing look out of the 
window at the rain, which went on falling in torrents, she sat down 
again disconsolately to listen and wait for her hostess’ return. 

Mrs. Warmington had not met her master on her way upstairs, 
for Olivia had heard him go into the front room before the house- 
keeper left her ; that she might be equally lucky on her way down 
was the girl’s inward prayer. For there were ominous sounds in the 
house suggesting that Mr. Brander was not minded to sit down quiet- 
ly to the writing of a sermon or the reading of a good book, as one 
had a clear right to expect of a clergyman. Poor Olivia, sitting up- 
right as a ramrod, with a scared expression of face, heard him come 
out of the dining-room into the hall. By the noise he made at the 
hat and coat stand, she guessed that he was changing his wet coat 
for a dry one. That business over, he ought plainly to have return- 
ed to his room ; so it seemed taOlivia. But instead of that, he re- 
mained fumbling at the stand until the listening girl remembered, 
with a spasm of terror, that she had left there to dry, by the house- 
ketqiv-r’s directions, her little hand bag. Perhaps Mr. Brander would 
pa^is it over, taking it for granted that the flimsy little feminine thing 


106 


ST. cuthbert’s toweb. 


belong’cd to Mrs. Warming-ton, No woman would have thong-ht so ; 
but, of course, men are not observant. Her worst fear was that he 
would remain there, not making- enoug^h noise to put the housekeeper 
on her g-uard, until that lady should come sailing- down the stairs 
laden Avith a hat and cloak which evidentlv did not belong to her. 
The girl scarcely dared to draw breath in lier intense anxiety. To 
be caught sneaking into a gentleman’s house in his absence, warm- 
ing yourself at his tire, and even— as she discovered to her dismay on 
examining her feet— making free with his slippers, is an awkward 
situation at any time. But when you have just been told the secret 
of his life, and when your whole soul is warring about him, mercy 
strug<» ling with horror, and conviction with doubt, the dilemma 
becomes well-nigh tragic. 

Presently Olivia heard him drop some object, and the little crash 
it made caused her to shiver and almost to cry out. Then he began 
to cross the uncaipeted hall with very slow steps. Olivia strained 
her ears and held her breath. He Avas coming towards the room she 
was in. Had he guess{;d the presence of an intruder, or Avas he only 
coming Avith the prosaic intention of ordering something to eat? 
The girl remembered Avith remorse how he had been cheated out of 
his lunche-on. But Avhat should she do? Already she heard him call- 
ing, in a low and, as she fancied, tired voice, “Mrs. Warmington !” 
There Avas no time to esc.npe by Avay of the kitchen — no corner of the 
room AA'liere she could hide herself. As she stood up to give one last 
hopeless look round, she ag-ain caught sight of her disguised figure 
in the glass. Seized by a happy thought, she snatched up from the 
top of one of the side cupboard.s, that filled the space betAveen the 
fireplace and the Avails, a small Avoollen shaAvl of rusty black, Avhich 
Mrs. Warmington used to Avrap round her head Avhen she indulged 
in an afternoon doze. Olivia now blessed her ferv^ently for this in- 
formation. She had just time to Avrap it round her head, to tlirow 
herself back in the rocking chair Avith her head turned aAvay from 
the door, to cross her Ic^sas Mrs. Warmington did, to fold her arms, 
and hide her hands in the folds of the baggy sleeves, Avhen the door 
opened softly, and Mr. Brander put his head inside. 

“ Mrs. Warmington !” he called, very gently. 

No ansAver, of course. 

“Are you asleep?” more gently still. 

His housekeepe-r’s afternoon doze AA’as a very common occurrence 
apparently, for he uttered a little petulant sound, and disappeared 
into the kitchen. In tlie dusk of a Avet afternoon the girl’s ruse had 
succeeded perfectly. But the obscurity Avhich had favored her Avas 
not equally kind to him, for Olivia heard much chinking of china 
and clattering of plate before he re-entered the room. Instead of 
going through to his OAvn domain, hoAvever, he stood still betAveen 
tlie firei)lace and the door, and Olivia, not daring to look, guessed 
that he Avas eating. Trembling as she aams Avith the fear of discovery, 
it seemed to her a long time before she heard him take up the poker 
and proceed A'ery noiselessly to break the red-hot coals. She seized 
the op|X)rtunity"to turn her head a little, and to steal a frightened 
glance at him through her eyelashes. He had'on the shabbiest of 
thi’cadbare and ragged house coats, and was hungrily eating bread 


rr. cuthbert’s tower. 


107 


and cheese and a piece of dry and crumbling- cake. When he had 
built up the fire to please him, he dragged an old church hassock 
from under the table, and seating himself on it, drew as near to the 
grate as possible, and went on with his improvised meal. 

He was so close to Olivia that she could detect the coaly smell 
which constant contact with his mining parishioners had imparted 
to his old clothes ; so close that she fmt that he was cold as well as 
hungry ; so close that his hair brushed Mrs. Warmington’s brown 
stuff gown as he bent forward, with his elbows on his knees, and 
looked into the fire. . 

And as they sat thus, in the darkening twilight, side by side, he 
unconscious of her presence, she grew less afraid that he should dis- 
cover it, altogether less anxious for the safety of her disguise. Her 
thoughts turned instead to consideration of his loneliness. What a 
cheerless existence was implied in this creeping up to the side of a 
rather cold and cross-grained old woman for warmth and compan- 
ionship ! The close contact seemed to help Olivia to feel her way 
into the mind of the solitary man. She pictured him innocent, labor- 
ing under a charge which for some unaccountable reason he was un- 
able to refute; slie pictured him guilty, torn with remorse, and 
working out a weary expiation. In the latter case, she began to 
feel, even more strongly than before her interview with Mrs. War- 
ming'ton, that the horror of the deed was swallowed up in compas- 
sion for the doer. When he had finished his very frugal dinner, he 
sat so still that she was able to open her e^^es and so gain all the in- 
formation concerning the state of his mind which a careful study of 
the back of his head" could impart. He was dejected, weary, un- 
happy ; probably smarting still, so she told herself, from the pain her 
step-mother’s treatment had caused him. Presently he rested his 
head on his left hand, and so came nearer still to her. She could feel 
that she was trembling from the force of an aching pity, and that 
her hands seemed to tingle with the wish to lie with consoling touch 
on his bent head. She had forgotten Mrs. Warmington and the dry 
clothes— forgotten to wonder how she was going to get out of the 
house and home again without discovering herself to Mr. Brander. 
She soon discovered, however, that her feelings were more acute 
than those of the object of her pity ; for his head tilted slowly further 
and further in her direction until at last it rested on her knee. Mr. 
Brander, who, after a fierce battle with certain very unclerical feel- 
ings, had tried to subdue the mind to the flesh by a long stretch over 
the hills, had succeeded in tiring himself out. 

He was fast asleep. 

And if he had but known it, he might have had sweeter dreams 
than he was used to. For the resting-place he had found was the 
creature who cared most about him of any in the world. 

Olivia had an inkling of this, and it made the touch of her hand 
almost motherlv as she bent down and held it very, very gently just 
near enough to feel his hair against her fingers. Only thirty -four 
or thereabouts, and his hair so grey ! She could dare now, as he 
slept, to bend right down, and to see by the firelight how thickly the 
white threads grew among the dark behind his ears and near the 
temples. So curly his hair was, she noticed ; quite soft, too, and 


108 


8T. CUTHBERT’S TOWEIU 


silky, like a child’s ; quite out of keeping* with the worn, lined face, 
that lof)k(*d so sad and so old as the dancing* flames threw deep 
shadows upon it. And her ling*ers moved involuntarily tliroiig*h the 
wavy mass, as she thought, as women will, that there had been a 
time", long* ago, when he lay, a helpless child, depending* on thekina- 
ness of a woman. And she tried to fancy what that poor mother 
would have felt if she had known what evil rumors would some day 
darken the name of her curly-haired boy. Olivia was by nature 
more impulsive and pa.ssionate than sentimental ; therefore these 
unaccustomed feeling’s and fancies instead of finding* vent in a 
gentle sigh, made luir breast heave and her eyes fill, until a broken 
whisf)er slippi'd throug*h her trembling lips — 

“ Poor mother— poor son!” 

She was ashamed of her foolishness the next moment, and rai.sed 
her head quickly with a start and a hot, tingling blush, anxious to 
jump up and run away, though still not daring to move. She took 
out her pocket handkerchief very carefully, dabbed it against her 
wet eyes with much fierceness, and then g*ave another glance, not 
at aU sentimental this time, at the face against her knee. Horror 
and confusion ! Was he asleep at all The expression of his face 
had quite chan^exi, and there was a wretched tear— her tear ! — on 
his forehead. What should she do? Remove -that tear, certainly. 
For' she felt that it would leave a huge stain, unmistakable as ink. 
Very nervously she attempted to drv it with her handkerchief ; but 
the moment the cambric touched his face, Mr. Brander raised his 
head and prevented her. 

“ Don’t !” he said, huskily. “Why should you? What is there 
to be ashamed of in your kindness to me? Do I get too much from 
an v body ?” 

Olivia did not answer. She felt as if a new acquaintance had sud- 
denly been sprung upon her. This mood was so different from any 
she liad seen Mr. Brander in before. The half-cynical self-reliance, 
the bright, somewhat bitter humor had disappeared, and given 
place to a humility so touching, so gentle, that she felt constrained 
to remain where she was rather than risk hurting his feelings by 
rising abruptly. But she could not answer his questions, and so she 
sat silently, with her head bent down and turned a little away, while 
he resumed the position he had first taken, with his arms" on his 
knees, looking into the fire. After a few moments, during which 
the girl had time to wonder that she felt, under these rather awk- 
ward circumstances, so much at her ease, she broke the silence, in a 
low, hesitating voice. 

“Mr. Brander,” she began, “ I should like to say something to you 
about— about this morning— about Mrs. Denison.” 

Her painfully apologetic tone made him turn his head at once, 
with a smile. 

“You may say something to me— in fact anything— upon any other 
subject than* those two,” he answered, in his usual kindly tone." “ Say 
something to me about this afternoon and about yourself. Let this 
morning— and Mrs. Denison— be buried. Mind, I say, this is no un- 
christian spirit.” 

“You are very good,” said Olivia, glancing at him timidly and 
gratefully. 


8T. CimiBERT’S TOWER. 109 

“Do you mean that ?” he aske-d, inquisitively. “ You have heard 
R g'OfKi (h*.ai to the contrary, you know.” 

“ Well, hut is all that true she burst out boldly. “Now, you 
have brought that qui5Stion upon yourself Ix'fore, and now you* de- 
liberately nrinj^ it unon yourself apiin. Why don’t you satisfy me 
by a straig’htforward answer 1 do deserve it ; for 1 always take 
your part, to other people and to mysidf too.” 

“Do you?” he asked, so «*a>.,'-(n’ly,*with such a flash of pleasure over 
his face that Olivia felt abashed as^’ain. Then he paused, and the 
li^^ht had jrone quite out of his face before he went on ; “ You won’t 
be satislied then with the consciousness that you are a poor beg'gar’s 
solitary champion?” 

“ I won’t be satisfied with that if I can ^-et von to tell me any more,” 
she answered, simply. “1 don’t pretend that I’m not anxious to 
know more ; but it is not out of curiosity to learn other people’s 
affairs, but b<‘.cause there really must be something peculiarly in- 
teresting about a secret which causes your owu relations to speak ill 
of you.” 

Olivia had suddenly made up her mind for a bold stroke. It can- 
not be denied that tlu'.re was a little malice in her heart ; but it was a 
small matter compared with h(;r real anxiety to put him on his guard 
against one whom she considered a tn^achefous friend. 

“ My relations !” he echoed, with a look of such bewilderment and 
Incredulity that she began to think he would not believe her. 

“ Isn’t a sister-in-law a kind of relation ?” asked Olivia, rather un- 
steadily, after a pause. 

Mr. ferander’s expr(‘.ssion changed to one of pain and fear ; so that 
Olivia watched him in terror, not daring to go on. He looked at her 
witho)it aiisweriiif^. and then, as she remained silent and fearful, he 
got up and walked to the other side of the little room, where, as her 
face was turned towards the fireplace, she could not see him ; but she 
knew without the aid of her eyes, that he was much agitated ; and 
when he came back and, standing by her chair, put his hand gently 
on her shoulder and spoke to her Avith calmness which might have 
pas.sed for unconcern, she Avas not deceived by it. 

“ And Avhat ill does my sister-in-IaAv say of me ?” he asked. 

“ She told my stepmother an old story, and said you were not a 
proper acquaintance for — young girls.” 

“ Oh, she said that, did she?” returned Mr. Brander, in a mea- 
sured voice. Then he said, abruptly, after a silence, “ You are sure 
of this ?” 

“Quite sure.” 

Then it apjx'-ared to the girl that he stood beside her without a 
word for a very long time. For the fireseeined to die doAA'u, and the 
murky light outside to fade perceptibly, before he even changed his 
attitude. At last she found courage to look up timidly into his face, 
and saw that his eyes Avere staring toAvards the windoAv with the 
blind look of a seer Avhose vision is only keen for the fancies and 
phantoms in his oAvn mind. And ]\Ir. Brander’s fancies must have 
been of the gloomiest kind, for his face startled the girl into uttering 
a little exclamation, which rou.sed him from his abstraction, and 
woke him to the fact that his baud had been laying all this time on 
the young girl’s shoulder. 


no 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


“ I bp-g* your pardon,” he muttered, as he withdrew it as hastily as 
if it had been red-liot iron. 

Tin; blood rushed to 01i\Ma’s face. The touch of Mr. Brander’s 
hand had not odcnded her ; the knowledge that it had been unconscious 
did. And a most acute pang shot through her heart, as she realized 
that it was becaii.se his mimd was full of another woman’s treatment 
that he was oblivious of her. She was jealous. In such an impul- 
sive, energetic girl as she was, vivid feeling found vent in hasty 
action. Rising from her chair, and quite forgetting that her odd 
costume madedignity impossible, she said, very coldly, that she must 
go home now ; her father would be anxious about her, and the rain 
was less violent. Even as she spoke the wind dashed a clattering 
shower against the window in disproof of her words. She did not 
notice it herself ; neither, apparently, did her host. For he opened 
the door for her at once without any semblance of a wish to aetain 
her, and without seeming to remark*^ her sing-ular apparel. 

Olivia darted out of the room and up the stairs in a tempest of ex- 
cited h'elings which found vent in an outburst of indi^mation against 
Mrs. Warmington for leaving her so long alone with Mr. Brander. 
The housekeeper met her at the top of the stairs, looking herself 
pale and frightened. 

“ Whv didn’t you come down?” asked Olivia, impatiently. 

The old woman glanced nervously down into the hall, and ans- 
wered in a soothing tone of apology, 

“I did not dare, Miss Deni.son. I did not want my employer to 
find me talking to you. He would have guessed what we were talk- 
ing about. We get so sharp, we people who live much alone, and 
he would never hav:^ forgiven me. Ever since 1 heard him go into 
the room were you were 1 have been walking up and down the land- 
ing in a fever. You did not tell him what we had been taUving 
about, did you?” 

“ No,” answered Olivia. “ He didn’t ask me.” 

“ Thank goodness!” said th(5 housekeeper with such a depth of re- 
lief that the girl's curiosity was roused. 

“ Why should you mind so much?” she asked. “He seems quite 
used to "having his allairs discu.ssed, and takes it for granted that 
people should think th(5 worst of him.” 

This thought moved her as she spoke, and caused her voice to 
tremble sympathetically. The housekeeper examined her face 
narrowly as she answered, Avith great discretion — 

“He v-nildn’t have minded about any one else. Miss Denison: 
but it’s different with you.” 

“ Difi'erent— Avirh me!” echoed the girl, very softl}’’. 

Without more words, Mrs. Warmington, after once more listening 
and glancing doAvn into the hall to a.ssure herself that thev were not 
likely to be disturbed, cro.ssed the landing on tiptoe, and beckoned 
Olivia to follow her. Then throwing open the door of one of the 
front bedrooms without noise, she said — 

“ That is Mr. Brander’s room. Do you see by his bedside a set of 
hanging shelves on the wall ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And a box in the middle of the bottom shelf?” 


BT. OUTUBEBT’S TOWEB* 


111 


Afl she spoke, the housekeeper was crossing’ the room. Taking 
down the box, she returned to the door with it, and, raising the lid, 
showed Olivia the tray of an old-fashioned workbox with well-worn 
fittings. 

“It was his mother’s, I believe,” she w^hispered. Then, as the 

S *rl drew back, shocked at having been inveigled into prying among 
r. Brander’s treasures, she went on : “Have you ever seen thisr’ 
And lifting out the tray of the workbox, she thrust under Olivia’s 
reluctant but astonished eye^ an indiarubber golosh, which Miss 
Denison instantly recognized as one she had lost on her way back 
from the Vicarage on the evening of her arrival at Rishton. 

With a little cry of astonishment and annoyance, Olivia put out a 
hasty hand to recover her lost property. But Mrs. Warm ini^ton pre- 
vented her, shutting the box hastily, and restoring it to its place. 

“I can’t take, or allow you to take, anything out of my employer’s 
boxes in his absence,” she said, drily. 

“ But it’s mine ; it’s of no use to him, and I want it!” 

“You will have to do without it, unless you care to go and fetch it 
yourself. But I think, on second thoughts, you will be satisfied that 
enough honor has been paid to your old shoe.” 

Olivia blushed, and moved- her shoulders with vexation. 

“It was such a huge thing!” she exclaimed, impatiently “|They 
were always sizes and sizes too bi^ for me.” 

Mrs. Warmington’s thin lips relaxed into a smile. 

“ Oh!” she said ; “ perhaps you only wish to put a smaller one in 
its place.” 

I Olivia felt that she had, as her brothers would have termed it, 
“given herself away,” and she was glad to let the subject drop. 
Following her conductress into her bedroom, she nut on her own, 
now dry, clothes, in silence and much meekness, tnanked her in a 
subdued voice for her hospitality, and begged, as a final grace, the 
loan of an umbrella. 

“ It won’t be necessary. Mr. Brander will see you home.” 

“Oh, no, indeed,” broke out Olivia, hastily. “I want to slip out 
of the house quietly without his seeing me a^aim” 

“Do you really want that?” asked the old woman, with a search- 
ing look which set the younger blushing. “Because, if so, I can 
take you down this way by the back staircase. It is never used, 
but — ” 

“ Then, perhaps, the stairs will creak,” interrupted Olivia, and 
without more delay she made, softly indeed but deliberately, for the 
front staircase. 

“1 can’t thank you enough for your kindness,” she whispered, 
when they both stood in the nail. 

Mrs. Warmington shook her head with a drily amused smile. 

“ I had a motive,” she said. “ 1 am too fond of my own comfort to 
put myself out of the wav without one.” 

“A motive !” echoed Olivia. 

“ Yes. I wanted to know you better, and I wanted you to know 
Mr. Brander better. Now nobody can deceive you about him, and 
nobod V can deceive me about you.” 

“ V/hy, wno would try asked Olivia. 


112 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“Nobodv, perhaps. Good-bye.” 

AVith one lance tow ards the open door of the front room, from 
which they botli heard the sounds of a man’s tread, the housekeeper 
shook her "•uest’s liand, and. ahriip ly leaving* her, disai)peared into 
her own domain at the back of the house. 

Olivia, who was hig hly otiended at this discovery that she had been 

managexl ” and made tin? victim of a little trick, walkt^i to the front 
door with her hea<l held hig-h, and a firm intention of not even g*laiic- 
ing in the direction of the study. I>ut a sound inside the room, as 
she passed the door, broke her re.solution, and she gave a swift glance 
that way. The look reveahid Mr. Brander standing beside theblack, 
empW fireplace. That was all. He saw her, and .saw the proud turn 
of her heacl as she instantly averted her eyes. Then he ht;ard the 
latch of the front door as her hands fumbled with it; he heard the 
door open, and shut again immediately, very softly. The next mo- 
ment there was a hesitating ste[) back acro.ss the hall, and the young 
girl’s face was looking into the dingy room. 

“Please will you open the door for me, Mr. Brander? I — I don’t 
quite understand the lock.” 

He came at once, and did the little service without a word. She 
looked out; it was still raining pi*rsistently, the heavy downpour 
having been succeeded by a line driz/.le. 

“ It hasn’t left off yet,” she said, timidly. 

“No.” 

They both stood still, looking out into the gathering darkness. 

“Shall I lend you an umbrella?” 

“ Oh, if you would, 1 should be so glad. I will be sure to bring — 
send it back.” 

He brought an umbrella from the stand, and opened it thought- 
fully. 

“If I lend you this one — it is the he.st, the lightest ; the one I use 
when there’s a bishop about— 1 shall want it again early to-morrow 
mor I dug ” 

“I’ll be sure to ” 

“ Very early,” he continued, without heeding her. 

“TheJi let me have the old one.” 

“It’s full of ho.les. Besides, one of the ribs is broken.” 

“Oh, never mind. I can (juite well get back without one at all.” 

“It might be manag(;d,” suggested Vernoii, guiltily, when he had 
produced and examined carcdullv the second-hest uinbrella, which 
proved to be only a little better than its ri’putation. “If I were to 
walk part of the wav hack with you, it mij»*ht clear up, and you 
might be able to getliome without one ; and 1 could bring it back, 
you see.” 

“But I don’t like to trouble. I’m always imposing,” murmured 
Olivia. 

However, the half pcrmi.ssion had been enoup^h for Mr. Brander, 
who was bv this time slipi)ing into his rough overcoat with the 
alacrity of the British workman at the sound of the first stroke of six. 

Worse coiKlitions for a ])lcasaiit walk through the fields and lanes 
can scarcely be imagined than a March evening after a pouring wet 
day, a hue rain falling, the ground aiikle-deep in mud, and the 


ST. CUTHBERT^S TOWER. 


iia 


darkness already so thick that an occasional slip into a puddle was 
unavoidable. They had to walk in most uneven, jolting* fa.shion to 
find a path at all throim’h the steepest part of the lane. Sometimes 
Olivia had to take Mr. Brander’s arm to keep her footing* at all, and 
once he had to help her to jump over a miniature torrent. They 
scarc(‘ly talked at all, but a warm sense of human sympathy a d 
mutual help g*rew so strong* between them that when they carrie to a 
particularly ug*ly quag*mire their eyes would meet with a smile ai.d 
a nod, and they would g*o on ag*ani very happily. At last, when 
they o'ot to the" top of the hill, and both" instinctively stopped for 
breatk at the same moment, Olivia looked up and said, shyly and 
simply — 

“ Did you know it was I— all the time ?” 

“I knew it was you when I felt — something on my face. I was 
asleep, and it woke me.” 

“I'm so sorry,” murmured she. 

“ Don’t apolog'ize. You may cry over me just as much as you 
like.” • 

She laug'hed a little, and then they went on ag*ain, but without ex- 
chang'ing* any more looks, until they came suddenly, without having 
realized that "they were so near to the bottom of the Vicarag*e hill. 
He glanced up it, and Olivia caught the expression of his eyes. 

“ Ytui are not g*oing there— to the Vicarage?” she burst out, 
impulsively. 

“ Yes, lam,” he answered, with a dogged look of anger and scorn 
on his face. 

The girl, drawing a long, sobbing breath, retreated a step with- 
out speaking. 

Vernon stopped and looked into her face almost with the boldness of 
is lover. 

“ Why not?” he asked, in a voice little above a whisper. 

“Why not, indeed, Mr. Brander!” she said, coldly, but without 
aucceeding in hiding a break in her voice ; “if the friends you can’t 
trust are of more value than those you can.” 

“ It is not a question of that, Miss Denison.” 

“ Isn’t it?” she broke in, quickly. “ I think it is. You will go in 
all cold indignation, and come out all hot remorse and repentance. 
And you will never see that lessons in patient self-sacrihce are all 
the g'ood you will ever get out of the Vicarage!” 

Vernon started violently, and fell to shivering. 

Shocked at the strong eHect of her bold words, Olivia remained 
silently and humbly waiting for the reproaches she ex^jected. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Olivia Denison’s outburst against the Vicarage folk and their treat- 
meet of Vernon Brander seemed to overwhelm the latter with con- 
sternation. He stood before the impulsive girl as if benumbed by 
her vehemence ; and it was not until her restless movements and 
bending head showed that she felt uncomfortable and ashamed of 


114 


BT. cuthbeet's tower. 


herself that he tried to spak and to reassure her. For it was evident 
that she thought her boldness had deeply offended him. 

“ You do them injustice, Miss Denison. Though 1 know it’s only- 
through your kind feeling for me. There is nothing my brother 
would not do for me ; he always takes my part most valiantly.” 

“Ah, your brother, perhaps. But Mrs. Brander! She doesn’t. 
And a woman can do you more harm by raising her eyebrows at the 
mention of your name than a man could by preaching a course of 
sermons against you.” 

“ But why should she? Miss Denison, I can’t believe it.” 

“Do you believe what I tell you, that Mrs. Brander warned my 
step-mother against admitting you into her house?” 

“ I must believe it, since you say it is true. But I am sure there 
must be some explanation — ” 

“ Of course there will be an explanation ; and one that will satisfy 
you perfectly, I have no doubt, interrupted Olivia, impatiently. 
“ Mrs. Brander will be able to explain everything, and make you 
see how entirely right and natural it is tlmt you should have no 
friends but those at the Vicarage.” 

She saw by the change in his face that she had succeeded in sow- 
ing the seea of what she considered a wholesome suspicion in his 
mind ; and rather afraid of trusting herself to further speech on a 
matter which lay nearer her heart than she cared to show, she held 
out her hand abruptly', saying with a brealv in her voice — 

“Good-night, Mr. feran'der.” 

She knew he was grateful for her interest in him ; she knew he 
had that day been happy in her society. But she was quite unpre- 

E ared for the flash of passionate feeling which suddenly shone out of 
is dark, thin face at the touch of her hand. It wasl ike the wild gratitude 
of a starving man for food, which he seizes ravenously, and for which 
he can utter no articulate thanks. Olivia was almost frightened by 
it, and her hand trembled as he clutched it in his. 

“ Good-night,” he said ; “good night. I had forgotten what such 
a thing was— as a friend— until, until you came. They are very 
good— my sister-in-law, and even my old housekeeper. But they 
are cold ; at least, they are not like you. There is something in the 
very touch of your hand, in the kindness of your eyes, that warms 
one and makes one feel— human again. God" bless you. Miss Deni- 
son!” 

He had hurried out his words so fast, in such a low, hoarse voice, 
that Olivia scarcely heard more than half. But what she did luiar 
touched, melted her, made her heart open with a yearning tender- 
ness she had never felt before, even for her beloved father in his 
troubles. She let Mr. Brander hold her hands in the grip of a mo- 
ment s passionate happiness, and only sighed out a faint protest 
against his fervent words. It was he who first woke from the en- 
trancing plea.sure of that moment’s mutual svmpathv. Letting the 
girl’s hand drop, he stepped back as abrup'tlv as if they had been 
interrupted, leaving her confused and ashamed at her involuntary 
shoyv of feeling. 

Through long years of self-control on his side, through pride on 
hers, they both recovered their outward composure so quickly that 


ST. outhbert’s tower* 


m 


a very keen observer, who happened to pass a moment later, could 
detect no si^n of unusual emotion in either of them. This passer- 
by was Ned Mitchell, who touched his hat to Miss Denison with a 
significant air of being determined to remark nothing, and nodded 
to the clergyman witn a side glance of no great favor. As she 
caught sight of him, Olivia drew a deep breath and shivered, as if 
some forg’otten horror had become suddenly vivid. Instead of allow- 
ing Mr. Brander to take a formal farewell of her, as he was about 
to do, she detained him by a gesture until the colonist was out of 
hearing, and then made an impulsive step nearer to him, with a 
face full of deep anxiety and excitement. 

“ I had forgotten — quite forgotten,” she panted out. “That man 
— do vou know who he is?” 

“No.” 


“ Do you know why he is here?” 

“ No— 0. But I have sometimes made ugly gues.ses.” 

“ They were right ; they were true. He is the brother of Nellie 
Mitchelf.” 

She communicated this intelligence in the lowest of whispers, and 
he received it without a {Xirceptihle rnovcnnent. She did not know 
what to do next — whether she should attempt to comfort and reassure 
him, or whether she should quietly slip away while he was apparent- 
ly absorbed in his own thoughts "and unconscious of her presence. 
She decided on a middle course. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Brander,” she said, in a gentle and timid voice. 
He startexi,' and as he turned towards her, she noUd narrowly the 
expression of his face. Whether ,the waning daylight had now 
grown ,too faint for her to see properl.y, she could be sure ; but it 
seemed to her that there was more relief than alarm in his eyes, 
which were glowing with keen excitement. 

“ When did you find this out ?” he asked, very quietly. 

“This afternoon, on my way to St. Cuthbert’s,” she answered, 
promptly. 

“ On your wav to St. Cuthbert’s,” he echoed, very softly. Olivia 
blushed and bit her lip, but she answered readily enough, holding 
up her head with some dignity— 

“You had been insulted by my people. I came to apologize for 
them. That was only natural, as vou were my friend.” 

Mr. Brander smiled. He seemed already to have quite recovered 
from any shock her alarming information might have been supposed 
to cause him. 

“ That was generous of you— and like you,” he said. “But it 
was very unwise. Do you want to set all the old women’s tongues 
wa^^in*^ 

‘°f don’t care,” murmured Olivia defiantly, though she cast down 
her eves ; “ besides, I didn’t stop to think.” 

“iut you ought to .stop to think. You haven’t always some one 
at your elbow to do it for you, as I verily believe a woman ought 

^^He'had fallen into the tone of playful reproach which was natural 
to him when he was moved to tenderness. 

“But I was in the right,” said Olivia. 


116 


ST. cuthbeet’s towee. 


“ I don’t know about that. However, we will leave that unsettled. 
How came this man to spc^ak to you 

“ He saw that I wanted to get into the churchyard, and so did 
he.” 

“And he told you he was Nellie Mitchell’s brother?” 

“Yes,” answered Olivia, who felt the hot blood burning in her face 
as he mentioned the dead girl’s name. 

Both were silent for some moments, during which Mr. Brander re- 
garded the girl intently, trying to fathom the thoughts in her mind. 

“ And you thought it would interest me to know this?” he asked, 
very gently. 

“ I— I was afraid so,” she burst out, and impulsively hid her face 
for a moment in her hands. 

She heard his breath come fast ; she seemed to feel that his hands 
were near her, hovering over her, almost touching her ; and she re- 
mained motionless. But when she looked up he was some paces 
away, busily employed digging holes in the ground with the point of 
his umbrella. As she looked up, their eyes met. 

“ Yes. You were right. It does interest me,” he said, gravely. 
Olivia’s face fell. At sight of this chang-e in her expression, Mr. 
Brander’s composure suddenly gave way again— broke up altogether. 
He showed himself suddenly in an entirely new light, sway ea by ex- 
citement .so tempestuous that the girl realized for the first time the 
depths of pa.ssion which still remained in this man under the burnt- 
out crust. In a moment she recognized tlie lact that he was cap- 
able of impulses and of acts which she could neither measure nor 
understand. For good or for evil, his was a nature deeper and 
stronger than hers. This knowledge, so suddenly borne in upon her, 

f ave her a new interest in, and respect for, him, even while it made 
er reluctantly admit that the possibilitv of his having committed a 

f reat crime was far clearer to her than before. All this flashed into 
^ er mind in a second of time, as his agitated face turned towards her 

i 'ust before the feelings which surged within him broke on his lips in 
ioar.se, incoherent speech. 

“ I must tell you— Oh, God ! Why should I not tell you ? Who in 
the whole word deserv^es to hear the truth as you do? Listen !” 

No need to tell the girl^ that. Her heart was in her eyes. She 
held her very breath m the ijilensity of a rush of feelings, which 
made her wet and cold from head to foot as she stood, unable to utter 
a word, waiting for the fatal explanation. He had cornea step nearer 
to her, the first words of his confession were on his lips, when a 
bright, high, woman’s voice broke upon their ears. The sound acted 
on Vernon Brander like a strokeof paralysis. His right hand, rai.sed 
in eager ge.sture, fell to his side ; into his excited face came .suddenly 
the vacant stare of idiotcy. As for Olivia, the tension on her weaker 
feminine nerves had been too great. 

She drew a long sigh, and burst into tears. Then, before he could 
recover himself sulhciently to offer one word of comfort or apology, 
she muttered a hasty “good-night,” and hurried- through the farm- 
yard gate towards her home. 

Vernon could only v/^tch her retreating figure a little way, as an 
angle of the big barn that stood opposite the farmhouse soon hid her 


fiT. cuthbert’s tower. 


11 ? 


from sig’ht. Then he went on with slow, do^g’ed footsteps to meet 
his sister-in-law ; for it was her voice which liad disturbed his tete-a- 
tete with Miss Denison. The suspicions of the latter had already 
bore some fruit in his mind ; for he asked himself whether Mrs. 
Brander had not come out on purpose to interrupt them. What 
other motive could bring- that comfort-loving lady out into the damp 
and cold of a wet April evening? He dismissed the idea from his 
mind almost as soon as it entered ; nevertheless, it was a just one. 

Mrs. Brander had called on Mrs. Denison that afternoon, and had 
learnt, through the indiscretion of the latter’s husband, enough of 
the morning's proceedings to fill her with anxiety and annoyance. 
The vicar managed to restrain her first impulse, which was to go 
straight to St. C'uthbert’s and see Vernon. 

“You will be putting yourself in the wrong if you do that, my 
dear,” said Meredith, quietly. “If he thinks he has any cause of 
complaint against you, he is not the man* to nurse it up silently. He 
is sure to come straight here on the first opportunity to ‘have it 
out ’ with you. And then 1 have no doubt of your powers of making 
the rough places smooth again.” 

Evelyn Brander submitted to her husband’s judgment, with a 
doubt which he made light of. A few months ago she could have 
made her brother-in-law take her own view of any matter ; now 
there was an unpleasant possibility that he might take somebody 
else’s. 

As the afternoon wore on, therefore, and Vernon did not appear, 
she went the length of watching for him at one of the drawing-room 
windows which commanded the best view of the road ; and when the 
tenant of the adjoining cottage returned home, she threw up the sash, 
and asked him if, in the course of the rambles round the parish 
which he was known to be in the habit of taking, he had that day 
met the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s. The colonist, being an observant 
man, noted the lady’s anxiety, and the unusual courtesy towardj 
him.seif to which it gave rise. 

“ Your brother-in-law, madam,” said he, bluntly, “is standingat 
the bottom of the hill. He has been standing there some time, I be- 
lieve.” Then the idea of a little experiment crossing his mind, Ned 
Mitchell made a pause to give the more effect to his next words. 
“He is with Miss Denison, of the farm down yonder.” 

Mrs. Brander’s handsome eyes flashed ; with what feeling, wheth- 
er jealousy, or anger or disquietude, he could not be sure. She be- 
stowed upon him a little polite smileof thanks for hisinformation, and 
said it was an unpleasant evening. But it was evident that her iu- 
terestin him wasgone ; and;is he had nothing more at present to obtain 
from or to impart to her, the colonist gave theotl-hand touch tohis hat 
which was the most rcsiiectful form of salutation he ever bestowed, 
and retreated into his cottage. Mrs. Brander shut down the window 
with one vigorous pull, and in two minutes was sallying down the 
hill through the mud and the driz/.le, her hand.some dinner dress 
held at a htdght more convenient than graceful, her kid shoes en- 
casexl in stout gohfshes, an old macintosh of her husband's buttoned 
round her with the sleeves left swinging and a huge carriage umbrella 
held over her head. Bhe was a practical woman, and if one liked to 


118 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


wear handsome clothes, there was no reason why one should spoil 
them for the sake of a more picturesque appearance for ten minutes 
on a wet evening*. As she passed the end of her neig*hbor’s garden, 
that g-entleman, who was on the watch underneath his porch, ad- 
dressed to her an admiring word. 

“Well done, ma’am !” cried he. “As long as you parsons’ ladies 
do your husband’s district visiting in such weather as this, you’ll 
stave oft' disestablishment, I reckon.” 

“Oh, yes,” she cailed out in answer, beinj^ in one of tho.se anxious 
moods in which the proudest woman is afraid of giving oftence to a 
fellow mortal ; “you don’t know yet what weak woman is capable 
of.” 

These were the words she was uttering when the faint sound of 
her voice startled Vernon and Olivia as they stood together at the 
foot of the hill. 

When Miss Denison left him, Vernon had only a few steps to take 
before he met his sister-in-law, who greeted him with the kindly af- 
fectionate manner of a relation with whom one is on perfectly good 
terms. She gave her umbrella to him to hold, and pa.ssed the disen- 
gaged hand lightly through his arm. Instead of proceeding up the 
hill with her, however, he stood still, remaining as stift' as a wooden 
soldier. 

“Aren’t you coming up to the house?” she asked, with innocent 
peremptoriness, shaking his arm persuasiv^ely. 

“No, thank you,” said ho coolly, but with "a coolness utterly differ- 
ent from hers, as it arose from the chilling of a warm nature, not 
from the innate frigidity of a cold one. 

“ Oh, but you must ! I was peeping out of the drawing-room win- 
dow when tHe bear next door came back to his den and told me you 
were out here, talking to Mi.ss Denison. So I rushed out hoping to 
catch you both, and drag vou in to dinner ; the pretty farmer’s 
daughter to amuse Mereditli, and you to entertain me.” 

V/ith the audacious coquetry of a cold woman, she pressed his arm 
with her hand, and bending forward looked into his face with her 

f reat gazelle-like eyes, which, by a turn of her head, she could make 
ivineV alluring while ordering the details of a custard pudding. 
But Vernon was not now to be allured. He witlidrew his arm 
boldly under the pretence that it required two hands to hold the heavy 
umbrella at the proper angle. 

‘ ‘ Miss Denison has gone home,” said he. “ And I’m going home : 
thank you.” 

“ What, without an umbrella ? Come as far as the house, and Til 
give you one. It’s sure to rain before you can get back.” 

“Miss Denison has got mine. I can go to the farm to fetch it.” , 
“Well, perhaps you won’t mind seeing me as far as the door first. 
I can’t hold that great thing and keep my dress up too. I won’t in- 
sist on your coming in ; that will do some other time. I had some- 
thing to say— to ask you about my Katie ; but never mind now. 1 
see you are thinking of something else.” 

“ Katie ! ” exclaimed Vernon. “ What about Katie? ” 

“Oh, she doesn’t seem very well to-day, and 1 thought perhaps — ** 
“ You thought what ? Is there anything I can doi”* 


8T. Cuthbert’s tower. 


119 


“There mig’ht have been. But I can’t ask favors of you in such a 
mood as you are in to-nig'ht. We are losing you day by day. You 
will soon have no place in your heart even for Katie.” 

“I think you misjudge me, Evelyn. A child may forget her 
friends when they are absent. But at least she does not speak ill of 
them. ” 

Mrs. Brander stopped short in the mud, and looked at him with 
proud indif^nation. * 

“ Of course I see you are insinuating* that I have done so. Your 
new friends have been turning* you ag*ainst the old ! ” * 

“No. It seems, thoug-h I can scarcely believe it, that my old 
friends have been turning my new ones against me. Now, Evelyn, 
you are honest, aren’t you ? Did you, or did you not, warn ^Irs. 
Denison against me, as not beiii^ a proper friend for a young girl ? ” 
Now, Vernon Brander only did his sister-in-law justice when he 
called her honest. Her blunt franknes.s, which mafie little account 
of other people’s feelings, had often been counted against her as a 
fault. Moreover, it was one result of her husband’s profession that, 
though not by nature over-scrupulous, lying should now seem a 
^reat sin to lier. But the i.ssues at stake seemed to her so great that 
It cost her only a moment’s hesitation to reply — 

“ 1 did not. I told her I understood you did not think of marrying. 
Was I wrong?” 

“No," answered Vernon, in a very low voice. 

Evelyn’s great eyes were meeting his with the simple, direct stare 
habitual to lier, which seemed to preclude the idea that she could lie. 
A weaker, a more sensitive, or a more modest nature would have 
shrunk from the ^aze of his burning, pleading eyes. But her char- 
acter \i'as not built on complex lines ; she felt that she was doing the 
best possible thing under the circumstances for herself and for every- 
body else, and so, her conscience being, as usual, free, there was no 
need for any airs of disquietude or remorse. And so the guileless 
man was caught at the first throw of the line, and was carried off to 
the house safe and subdued, while she informed him that Katie was 
not well, and that if he and his old housekeeper were willing to take 
charge of the little girl at St. Cuthbert’s for a fortnight, she thought 
the change would do her good. 

The vicar’s wife had not overrated the effect of this proposal. To 
have his darling niece in his own care for two w*hole weeks was a 
bribe which would have tempted him to condone any wrong. By 
the light which came into his face as he quietly said he should be 

f lad to have the child, Mrs. Brander knew that her trump card had 
een verv well played, and that she had an influence ready to her 
hand which might'be reckoned upon to counteract the dangerous one 
of Olivia Denison’s youth and beauty. 

The tenant of the cottage watched the pair curiously as they 
passed his garden on the wav up to the Vicarage. Nothing in the 
demeanor of either escaped his penetrating eyes. Absorbed as he 
was in one object, every smallest incident which occurred in his 
neighborhood was regarded by him as having a possible bearing 
upon it. 

“ I wonder,” he said to himself, as they turned the corner into the 


120 


ST. cuthbbrt’s TOWSa. 


private road at the top of the hill, ** what is the reason of the interest 
that parson’s wife takes in her husband’s brother? Pretty strong it 
must be to brir^ my lady out into the puddles in those finicking 
togs of hers ! Love, passion, anything of that sort? She ain’t built 
that wav ; and if she had liked him best, she would either have 
married him or she’d have given ’em something to talk about by 
this time. I should like to mink there was a woman in the secret — 
mv secret ; it would make my Avork seventy-five per cent, easier.” 

in the meantime, Mrs. Brander and Vernon had reached the house, 
and had been met at the door by the vicar, who seemed placidly 
amused by the triumph and satisfaction he saw on his wife’s face, 
and by the subdued and even hangdog expression on that of his 
brother. 

Dinner was waiting ; and the vicar, who A^ms as much disturbed 
by such an occurrence as he CA^er AAms about anything, hastened to 
l^d the way to the dining-room, gently murmuring disapproA^al of 
his Avife’s conduct in leaving the house" at such a critical moment. 
The meal passed uncomfortably ; for the unexplained uneasiness 
under Avhicn Vernon Avas evidently laboring could not fail to effect, 
in some degree, eA'en his rather stolid brother. When they all ad- 
journed to the draAving-room, the constraint of his manner" became 
80 apparent that Meredith, used to an atmosphere of calm respect 
for nirnself and content Avith things in general, laid his hand on his 
brother's shoulder and asked him, Avith benevolent peremptoriness, 
if there was anything the matter. 

Vernon who was standing by a table, turning over the leaves of 
a magazine with unmistakable lack of interest, started Adolently, 
and caused his sister-in-laAv to look up from the needle A\mrk Avith 
which her handsome, industrious fingers Avere nearly always em- 
ployed. Her quick eyes discoA^ered, at a glance, that there was 
some more serious reason for his melancholy than she had sup- 
posed. She rose and with a thrill of vague anxiety laid aside her 
work and crossed the room towards the tAvo brothers. Vernon’s 
eyes met hers, and the expression she saw in them caused her to 
stop abruptlv. 

“ Well, Avhat is it? Do speak out, Vernon. We are not fools. We 
are ready to hear anything,” she said, in impatient, almost querulous 
tones. 

Her brother-in-law cleared his throat, looking from the one to the 
other Avith a strange yearning in his eyes. 

“ I will .speak ; 1 Avill tell you,” he "said hu.skily. “I have learnt 
to-day something which may cause you some alarm— for me,” he 
added, hastily, as husband and Avife looked anxiously each at the 
other. “ J don’t know whether you have ever troubled vourselves 
about the man who has come to liv'e next door, or made any in- 
quiries about him.” 

“ Well, Avhn is he? What is his name?” a.sked Evelyn, while her 
husband remairu'd silently Avatching his brother. 

“ He is Netl Mitchell, the brother of — ” 

He stopptd. There was dead sihmce in the room. Not one of the 
three seemed to dare to meet the eyes of another. Evelyn was the 
first to s})eak. Her voice Avas low and husky, quite unlike her usukl 
bright, imperious tones. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 




‘You are sure?” she said. 

“Quite sure.” 

Another silence. 

Then the vicar spoke. His voice was not affected by the alarming 
announcement, except that it was, perhaps, unusually f^entle ana 
kind. He laid a syinpfithetic hand on the shoulder of his brother, 
who still remained, with head bowed down, unable to meet their 
eyes. 

“ And, of cour.se, you think he is here about that unfortunate busi- 
ness of ten years a^o ?” 

Evelyn shuddered, and glanced first at her husband and then at 
the broken-down man on the other side of her. Her lips moved, im- 

f doring- Meredith to be kind, to be careful. Vernon raised his head, 
ooking* still at the carpet. 

“ I suppose so,” he answered, in a husky voice. “Not that we 
need trouble ourselves. What can he really ao ? Nothing. I— I am 
as safe as ever. ” 

The vicar withdrew his hand. Calm as he had remained, ha 
seemed to breathe more freely at this assurance. 

“ I hope so, indeed,” he saici, solemnly ; “ for all our sakes.” 
Vernon rose, and his eyes met those of hisbrother for the first time. 
He tried to speak, but only a dry, choking sound came from his 
parched mouth. He seized the hand his brother held out to him, 
and wrung it till the clasp of his thin, nervous fingers left livid marks 
on the .soft pink flesh. 

“ God bless you,” murmured the vicar, in his warmest tones of 
encourag-ement and sympathy. 

Again Vernon tried to speak ; again he failed. With a hasty side 
glance at his sister-in-law, full of a plaintive, dumb sort of gra'titude 
and entreaty, he crossed the room rapidly, with almost a staggering 
gait, opened the door with clammy ling-ers, and hurried out. 
Husband and wife, thus left face to face, said not a woid, but each 
gave a strange look of searching inquiry into the face of the other. 

“ Poor fellow !” .said the vicar, gently. 

Mrs. Grander did not answer. With a woman’s keener sympathy, 
she was listening to her brother-in-law's footsh’ps in the hall outside. 
All there was of warmth in her somewhat cool nature was brought 
to the surface to-night. As she heard the hall door open, she uttered 
a little erv, and, leaving the room quickly, came up with Veiaion 
before he had got out of the house, and put a warm, loving hand 
uijon his arm. 

“Oh, Vernon, Vernon ! I w, anted to say God bless you too !” she 
whisyxired, with tenderness most unwonted in the self-contained 
woman. 

Vernon looked in her face with astonishment. There were tears 
in her great brown eyes ; tears which, if he had seen them a few 
months ago, would have .set his blood and his brain on fire. Now 
the .sight of them filled him with astonishment and gratitude, but 
left him calm. , ^ . , 

“ You are too kind, dear,” he said, pr.e.s.sing her hand aTectionately 
in his. “ You rnu.st not troulde vour head so much about me. in- 
deed there is no need. Good-night, good night.” 


122 


BT. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


He stooped and kissed her hand very g’ently, very reverently, 
and left her, hurrying* down the lane without a look behind. 

Evelyn Braiider stared out into the darkness for some minutes 
after he had disappeared from her sig'ht. For the first time, perhaps, 
in all her life she felt a vag-ue sense that there might be something 
in existence more serious, more interesting than what we should 
eat, and what we should drink, and wherewithal we should be 
clothed. 

“ If I had only known,” she murmured to herself ; “ if I had only 
been able to know !” 

Then she looked curiously at the hand Vernon had kissed, seeming 
surprised to find no chajige in its appearance. The next moment, 
raising her head to its usual proud angle, with a little laugh at her 
own folly, she shut herself into the house. 


. CHAPTER XVn. 

* 

When once the secret concerning the identity of the stranger at the 
cotta'^'e had been let out, it spread mysteriously throug-hout tlie 
length of the straggling village with astonishing rapidity. Ned 
Mitc hell had come back ; and, remembering the character for pig- 
headed obstinacy he had borne at home when he was a boy, it was 
safe to prophecy that there would shortly be a “shindy ” somewhere. 
Two or three old people now declared that they had recognized him 
from the first, though they had been too discreet to make known the 
fact ; and towards tne close of the day following that on which he 
had revealed his name to Miss Denison, it became plain to him, from 
the whispers of young girls and the curtsies of old women, that he 
was the liero of the hour. 

In the evening he had the honor of a call from the chief of the 
village busybodies, a superannuated postman, who clung to his old 
trade of news carrier to the community. As Ned Mitchell lived by 
himself, and locked up his house when he was out, the visitor had to 
sit on a broken horse trough which stood on the green under the 
trees opposite to the cottage until the colonist returned from one of 
his long daily rambles. 

“ Good-evening, squire,” said the old postman, rising with fussy 
respect, and hobbling quickly to the gate lest his unwilling host 
should shut him out before he could reach it. 

Mitchell glanced towards him, and jerked at him an indifferent 
nod. The old man was not to be rebuffed. He had that quality of 
dogged and patient energy which we can most of us show in other 
people’s business. 

“Pardon, squire,” he said, with a beggar’s humility. “Don’t be 
affronted with me for wishing to be one o’ t’ first to pay my respects 
to ye. ” 

“ Respects !” echoed Mitchell, shortly, thrusting his hands into his 
pockets with an instinctive perception that these contained his most 
respect- worthy attribute. 

“ Ay, squire. I’m proud to be one o’ t’ first to welcome ye back to 
yer owd home. ” 


ST. outhbbrt’s towbr. 


123 


‘‘ Old home! What, do you call this wretched little heap of mouldy 
bricks and worm-eaten boards a home for me ?” asked the colonist, 
contemptuously. 

“Noa, squire; leastways it didn’t oug'ht to be. But as them as 
have no ripi'ht to ’t have g“ot t’ Hall Farm instead o’ them that was 
born and bred there, it’s summat to welcome ye back to t’ village 
that’s proud to have you belonging to it.” 

“Proud! Why proud?” asked Mitchell, bluntly. “If the village 
has got to be proud of me, I ought to be ashamed of it, I should think. 
And who can have a greater right to the farm than the man who’s 
paving the rent of it.” 

I'he old postman was not abashed. Each snub administered to 
him did but increase, in his eyes, the importance of the adminis- 
trator. He felt, too, that the opportunity he gave the colonist of 
sharpening his wit upon him was inclining that gentleman to look 
upon him with favor. 

“ Very true, squire. You that travel get a different way o’ looking 
at things from what us stay-at-home folk do. All t’ same, squire, 1 
hope as I may be allowed to give you a bit of a hint that may, or it 
may not” — and the old man nodded with mystery and importance — 
“ be of use to you on your business here.” 

“My busings here! And what’s that ?” asked Mitchell, abruptly. 

“Well they do say as how it were on account of summat as nap- 
pened ten years ago" that were never cleared up.” 

“Oh?” 

“And if so be as that’s true, which I don’t say— neither do I say 
otherwise, as it aren’t true, why then what I say is,” went on the 
old man, whose style grew more involved the nearer he came to the 
point, “ that Martha Lowndes, as were her foster-sister, and them 
two always as thick as thieves, which that is a party as knows more’n 
she tells.’"’ 

Ned Mitchell, who had been taking nuts from his pocket, opening 
them with a penknife, and devouring them ravenously, shut up his 
knife and laid his hand on his garden gate without the smallest sign 
of interest in the information he had received. 

“ Is that all ?” he asked, feeling his pockets to make sure that not 
one nut still lurked in the corners. 

“Well—” began the gossip, rather disconcerted, but ready to 
make the be.st of a bad business. 

“Ah, it is all, I see,” interrupted Mitchell. 

And with a nod of stolid indifference, he turned and strolled up 
the cottage path. 

But Ned Mitchell, though he had no notion of being grateful for 
the old man’s information, was not long in making use of it. No 
sooner had the April evening closed in than he, having already found 
out Martha Lowndes’ dwelling, knocked at the door of a small, 
tumbledown cottage, where he was admitted at once by a woman 
who looI<ed about lifty, and whose face was careworn and deeply 
furrowed. 

“ Martha Lowndes ?” said Ned. 

“Yes,” answered the woman, looking at him curiously. 

“ I thought you were younger.” 


124 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“Fm thirty -five,” said the woman, shortly. ‘‘You’re Ned 
Mitchell, I sui)p 06 e. I’d for^^otteu you ; but they told me you were 
about ; so 1 suppose it’s you.” 

“ Rig-lit you are.” 

“ Come 111 , then.” 

He at once accepted the not very g-racious invitation, and sat down 
on one of the wooden cliairs. which she dusted for iiiin. 

“And so you’re come at last. You didn’t liurry ^murself.” 

“No, 1 didn’t hurry myself, but I meant to come.” 

“ Well, 1 thoui^’ht it was odd if you didn’t, and her your favorite as 
she always was. 

“ Yes, that’s true. But that was in the old days, when I was senti- 
mental. If it had hapjiened when 1 first went away, with nothing- but 
the shirt on my back and my mother’s Bible, 1 should have worked 
my pas.sag-e home by the next boat, and run amuck among- these 
fine g-entlemen till 1 g-ot the right one by the tliroat. But when it 
did hapfien. I’d g-ot sheep farms of my own, and a wife and family, 
and was making- my pile. So I let justice wait till my liver wanted 
a chang-e. But it'll be justice none the less for that.” 

The woman stofKi with arms akimbo, reg-arding- him solemnly. 
Indeed all capacity for gaiety or even cheerfulness seemed to be dead 
iu her. 

“Well,” she said, presently, “and what do you want with me?” 

“ Y^ou can tell me something-, or else I’ve been made a fool of.” 

“Ye.s, that’s right enough. lean tell you something. It’s been 
on my mind this ten year, and it’s what has made an olcl woman of 
me before my time." You remember me, ‘flirting Mattie’ they 
called me then, and I don’t say but what I was as good as my name. 
There were a pair of us, they said ; and we were together a good 
deal. ‘Birds of a feather,’ you" know. But Nell was always closer 
than me ; if I fancied anybody, all the world might know. But 
she, she’d carry on with half a dozen, and you mi^ht never know 
which was the one she’d a liking for, or if it was in Tier to care for 
anybody. It wasn’t for a long time I mvself gue.ssed there was 
something up— not till she grew mopish and fidgety like, and set me 
wondering. For awhile she’d own to nothing, and it wasn’t till one 
day I took her unawares like that I found out how serious it -was with 
her.” 

“ Serious?” 

“ Y(^s. As serious as it could be. I taxed her with it quite sudden 
one day as she was sitting there on that same chair like as it might 
be you. And she turned ouite white and confessed, and said as liow 
it wasn’t that as troubled her n os% but that he'd got tircM of her, 
and wanted to ^et shut of her, and was crazy at the thought of the 
exposure and disgrace. ‘Why, it's you that’s got the worst of that 
to bear ; not him !’ cried I. And all bn a sudden she getsquite quiet, 
and as it might be bites her lips together, so as no words she didn’t 
want to use mightn’t force themselves through. ‘Why don’t you 
sp'ak to your brother?’ said I : ‘ he'd get the fellow to do the right 
thing by vou.’ But she only shook her head, and o-ot up, and began 
to walk"ar)out, and just said in a low voice that 1 (fidu’t uudeystaud. 
4ud 1 began to guess it was a g-entleiuaU' ” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


125 


**Toti taxed her with that?” 

“ Ycs‘ She took it all in the same siillen way, and would name no 
names. But slie said he loved another woman, and she’d have for- 
given him anything but that.” 

” But you should have got her to say who he was, woman !” 

Do you think, if wild horses could hav'e drag^*ed it from her, I 
shouldn’t have known? I tell you I never knew before what was in 
the girl ; how obstinate she could be, nor what strong feelings she 
had. It was something quite dill'erent to what I’d ever felt, and I 
wasn’t the same with her as I’d been before. When she passed 
through this door that evening, it seemed as if a tierce, revenge- 
ful woman had gone out where just a giddy girl like myself had 
come in.” 

hied Mitchell was not mov^ed by this recital to any show of deep 
emotion, but the woman could see that he was touched, and she went 
on in a voice less studiously cold— 

“ I didn’t see her again for some days— not for near a fortnight, 1 
think. But when I did, it didn’t need her words to point out the 
change in her. I didn’t dare ask her many Questions that time, but 
I'd got some inkling by then as to who those might be that was 
bringing her to this pass. I thought I'd try to get at the truth in a 
roundabout way if I could ; so I began, ‘ 1 didn’t see you at church 
on Sunday eveiiing, Nell.’ Her face grew sullen at once. You see, 
sir. I’d heard of a certain clergyman that was often at the Hall Farm 
of an evening.” 

‘‘You mean Vernon Brander, I suppose?” 

“Yes. And how Nell had been seen late o’ nights down by St. 
Cuthbert’s.” 

“ Well, now, I think his coming openly to the farm is more in his 
favor than not.” 

“ Unle.ss it was a blind.” 

“AVell.-^” 

“ Well, I dursn’t say more then, but presently, as she sat at tea 
with me, I caught her eating some green ga^es that was on the 
table in an oddly ravenous way, stones and all. ‘AVhat ever are 
you doing, Nell'?’ says I. ‘You'll be ill for sure if you swallow 
those stones like th'at.’ And she looks at me with an odd smile. 

* I’m practising,’ says she. ‘ I may have to swallow worse than that 
some dav.’ I stared at her, thinking perhaps her trouble had 
touched her head, poor thing ! And then 1 got quite cold, fancying 
perhaps she had it in her mind to make away with herself. And I 
savs, ‘ Nell, if ever you feel tempted to do a mischief to yourself, 
th'ink of them that cares for vou truly— of poor Ned, away across 
the seas !’— yes, I said that, I?ed— ‘and of me, that's always cared 
for vou like as if you’d been one of my own !’ Then up she started 
from her chair, and began to roam about the room again, resdess 
like, just as she’d done the last time. ‘Don’t be afraid, lass,” says 
she to me, in a voice she meant to be rough. ‘ I’m not going to do 
anvthing foolish— not more foolish than I’ve done already, that is. 
W'liile there's life there's hope, they say, though perhaps there's not 
much of either left for me f’ ‘ What do you mean, Nell.^” says I, 
frig-htened. She didn’t answer mt) for a minute j then suddenly 


126 


BT. OUTHBBRT’S TOWBB. 


she turned, with her g’reat black eyes flashing*, and said, ‘ If I’m 
found dead, Mattie, you’ll know I didn’t put an end to myself. 
And I tell you I’ll let others know it too, if my body lies buried fifty 
years first.’ Oh, Ned, I shall never forget her face. It was white 
like death, and the lips all drawn back trom her teeth. ’Twas as if 
all life and the wish to live were burning- out of her. ‘ Why, Nell, 
this man, whoever he is, he surely never threatened to kill you !’ 
‘Not in words, no,’ says she, with her eyes fixed in front of her. 
‘But there w^as murder in his eyes the last time I saw him. If he’s 

{ )ast caring- for me, he may kill me ; I don’t care. But he shan’t 
ive happy with the love of that other woman ; I .swear it. I’ve 
been true to him. I’ve done for him what there’s hardly a g-irl in 
England would have done ; I’ve held my tongue when just to speak 
would have ruined him. But I’ll not die, and be put out of the way, 
and him go unpunished !’ I wss that frightened, Ned, I could 
scarcely speak. I told her not to have such areadful thoughts, and 
I reminded her again of you, and how fond you were of her. ‘Yes,’ 
says she, witn a queer smile that made me feel cold ; ‘ Ned would 
see me righted if any one tried to wrong me. And whether I’m 
alive or dead he will.’ ” 

Ned Mitchell did not move. His face was set like a rock, and, be- 
yond the fact that he was deeply attentive to every detail, it was im- 
possible to guess what effect tne story had upon him. He nodded to 
the woman to go on. 

“ ‘Alive or ^ead, Nell I’says I, when I could speak for trembling. 
‘What mak('s you harp soon death, if you mean rightly b^’^ yoursml 
and them that love you ? As for the rascal that’s brought you to this, 
if you won’t make a clean breast of it to your brother SAm, you’d 
best keep out of the creature’s way, seeing you think so ill of him as 
to believe him ready to do you a mischief. It’s no good of courting 
harm. You’ve no need to give wav. If Sam was to turn against 
you when it all comes out, you cou'ld go away to Ned ; he’d receive 
you fast enough, whatever you’d done. I’ll warrant. Keep a heart in 
you, my girl.’ But she took no notice, and went on eating the green 

f a^es, kones and all, in just the same way, till I tried to take the 
ish away. Then she threw back her head with a hard laugh, 
and, savs'she, ‘Look here, Mattie, you may as well leave those 
things here. I’m not cracked ; I’ve a reasoirfor what I’m doing. I 
shall go and meet him again ; I tell you I’m that mad about him I 
can’t keep away when he tells me to come. But if he tries any tricks 
with me, I’ve made up rny mind that I’ll find a chance to swallow 
somethingof his, if it’sbuta shirtstud ora button, so as my body, when 
it’s found, shall bear witness against him just as well as my tongue 
could if I was alive. Now you remember that, Mattie, if things 
come to the worst.’ 

“ And with that she was off and out of the house. But I ran after 
her, and caught up with her, and, ‘ Nell,’ says I, ‘ when are vou going 
to see this man?’ For J had it in my mind to stop iier. And 
she gave me a queer look out of the corners of her eves. ‘ Fm going 
to meet him tomorrow night,’ says she. And she'" snatched away 
her arm and ran off. That was the last I saw of her, aiive or 
dead.” 


ST. cuthbert’s toweb. 


127 


There was a short pause. 

“ Then you might nave saved her,” said Ned Mitchell, at last, in a 
rasping voice. 

“ Don’t say that, Ned,” pleaded the woman in low tones. “Many 
and many’s the time I’ve said that to myself, and reproached myseliL 
But, remember, she said, ‘To-morrow night’—” 

“ Well, you might have known it was only a blind, with her 
heart set on the fellow like that. I should have known. However, 
it’s no use wasting words over it now. You thought you would sea 
about it next day, and when next day came it was all over with 

the girl.” 

“You’ve no right to be so hard, Ned; you that were content to 
let the man who murdered your sister lie peacefully in his bed theso 
ten years !” 

“That’s different. If I’d come over next day I couldn’t have 
brought her back to life again,” said he, in a dogged tone. But the 
man’s conscience was uneasy, and this made him the more harsh to- 
wards Martha. “ Why didn’t vou tell this yarn you’ve been pitch- 
ing me to somebody that would, have seen into things ?” - 

“ I did tell it to Sam. But you know Sam, how timid he was, and 
slow at things. And his wife never could abide Nell, and nothing 
would ever persuade her the girl hadn’t gone off with somebody : 
and, indeed, many people believe that now, and say Nell Mitchell 
was always a light sort, and it was just what they’d expected, for 
her to make a bolt of it with somebody. But I know better.” 

“ How about the parsons ? How did they take it 
“ Well, I can tell you the rights of a little story that’s not general- 
ly known. Next morning, before anybody knew Nell haa disap- 
pear^,‘Parson Vernon was at Matherham Railway Station in time 
for the first train to London. His brother Meredith, who’d be.en call- 
ed out of his bed in the small hours to see a dying man, came up 
with him while he was standing on the platform. My cousin Dick 
— you remember -Dick, the miller’s son — saw the meeting; and he 
says he never saw such a contrast between brothers as those two 
made ; the one coming up all fresh and smiling, and surprised ; the 
other pale and ghastly, with bloodshot eyes, and a wild, hunted look 
in his face already. ‘ Why, Vernie,’ says the vicar, ‘ what are you 
doing here at this time in tlie morning Dick says the other looked 
as scared as if the hangman’s rope was about his neck. He stam- 
mered and said something about a morning paper ; for Dick had 
edf>’ed near enough to hear. But then the railway ticket fell from 
his fingers on to the ground, and Mr. Mererlith picked it up sharp as 
a needle. Dick saw by the color it was a third class ticket to London. 
Then the brothers looked at each other, and Mr. Vernon saw it 
wouldn’t do. The other took his arm and led him from the station, 
and I suppose Vernon made a clean breast of it, and told him how 
bad it would look for him to run away. And sure enough, when 
the inquiry was made, the best point in Vernon’s favor was that he 
had done nothing to escape it. Dick kept his own counsel, except to 
me that he could trust ; and the few people that was about just then 
had no wish to come forward. For though Mr. Vernon was looked 
upon as a bit wild for a parson, he was popular too in a way, and 


128 


ST. cuthbeet’s tower. 


then if not for him they’d have held their tong-nes for the vicar’s 
sake. So there was just a fuss and a scandal and an inquiry, and 
Mr. Vernon was had up on suspicion, because some one had heard 
cries of ‘ Murder !’ near St. Cuthbert’s that night. And then it all 
died away, and everything was the same as before except Mr. Ver- 
non and me ; the shock made me what you see ; and as for Mr. Ver- 
non, he’s been a changed man, and he’s that loved now that if you 
was to have him up again, on something stronger than suspicion, it’s 
my belief the miners would lynch you.” 

“I shall take my chance of that,"” said Ned Mitchell, stolidly, as he 
rose to go. So this precious vicar that everybody thinks so much 
of does all he can to shield his brother? ” 

“ You can hardly blame him for that. You’d do the same your- 
self.” 

“Blest if I should ! Let those suffer that do wrong, say I. My 
sister did wrong ; but she had her punishment, else I'd not have 
lifted a linger for her. As for these sermon vampers, it would be 
small harm if they both swung together, I expect. I’ve not much 
re^ct for parsons out of their proper place, the pulpit.” 

But Martha looked scandalized at this speechj and seemed to regret 
her frankness. 

“You’ll not go insulting the vicar, I hope, Ned,” she said, uneasily. 
“ ‘By their works ye shall know them,’ the Scripture says, and if so, 
you’ve got nothing against the vicar but a weakness for his own 
flesh and blood.” 

“Well, what are his ‘works? ’ What does he do ? Does he live 
in a poor house, to have more to spare for folks poorer than himself ? 
Does he deny himself a wife and children, that he may be a better 
father to his flock ? Or, if he despisesK temporal things for his 
parishioners, if not for himself, does he trudge it on foot, all weath- 
ers, to give spiritual consolation to people too ill to come for it? ” 

“ No-o ; that’s Mr, Vernon that does all that. But Mr. Meredith is 
— just what a vicar ought to be.” 

“ A pretty figure for a pulpit? I see. Oh, I’ll let him alone. 
Nothing I shall say shall take a single one of the well-to-do creases 
out of his fat face. I’ve other fish to fry than to go hurting the feel- 
ings of your pretty vicar : never fear. Good evening.” 

He did not wait"for his curt salutation to be returned ; but slightly 
touching the hat it had not occurred to him take off, he opened the 
door, and walked out with his usual ponderous, deliberate step. But 
after going a few paces he stopped short, and returning to the cot- 
tage, thrust open the door and addressed Martha again— 

“ You say some one heard the cry of ‘ Murder ! ’ on the night my 
Bister disappeared. Who was it ? ” 

“A lass that was coming back from Sheffield with her voungman 
—Jane Askew. They’re married now, and she’s ]Mrs. Tims. They 
both heard it.” 

“And they saw nothing, and looked for nothing? ” 

“ They couldn’t agree as to where the sound came from ; and per- 
haps neither of them’s over brave, and near a churchyard at night 
too. But going along they met somebody that knew more than 
them, they think ; for he was limping along at a great rate with a 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


129 


scared look on his face, and he came straight from the churchyard.” 

“Hey, and who was that ? ” asked Mitchell, with strong interest. 

“A tramp called Abel Squires.” 

“ Perhaps he was mixed up in it ? ” 

“ Oh, no, I hardly think that. She was a strapping lass, and he’s 
a poor crippled fellow with only one leg. Besides, what should he 
do it for? ” 

“ Anyhow, where is he to be found? ” 

“Ah, that’s just what nobody knows. He used to be seen about 
here often enough, but since that night he’s only been caught sight 
of once or twice, and then always in company with the same per- 
son.” 

“ And that person is — ” 

“ Mr. Vernon Brander ! ” 

“ Thanks. That’ll do for me, I think.” 

And with that he left her as abruptly as before, and this time 
walked straight back to his own dwelling without a pause, or so 
much as a glance to right or left of him. 

For some days after that, the stolid figure of the colonist was 
missed from the village. People began to think that he had decided 
that the object of his stay was hopeless, and that he had slunk away 
quietly to avoid the humiliation of owning that his dogged obstinacy 
had been beaten. The old woman who swept his rooms and washed 
up his tea things, though much questioned, could tell nothing. He 
had paid her up to the day of his departure, and had simply told her 
that hq was going away. But whether for a day, a week, or forever 
he did not say. No board, however, was put up before the cottage 
to announce that it was to let ; so that speculation was in favor of 
his return. Martha Lowndes was the only person who rightly 
guessed on what errand he had gone. She alone would have felt no 
surprise if she could have followed the track of Ned Mitchell as he 
wandered about the country spendiiij^ a day here, three days there, 
always stolidly unsociable, and yet always contriving to get more 
information out of his neighbors than the chattiest and cheeriest of 
travellers could have done. He was tracking a man down with the 
feeblest of clues— a wooden leg and a Yorkshire accent. But he was 
gifted with a dogged energy and patience which nothing could 
daunt, and so in the end he found his man. The place was a com- 
mon lodging house ; the time was three weeks after he started on his 
search ; the man was Abel Squires. 

Ned Mitchell, when he found himself face to face with the crippled 
tramp, thought that his work was practically done— a witness found 
ready to his hand. But he was mistaken. Luckily for his object, 
he broached the matter with the caution of a skillful diplomatist, so 
that Abel had no idea of the interest he took in it. But the Yorkshire- 
inan in tatters was as keen and canny on his side as the Yorkshire- 
man in broadcloth was on his ; he was impervious to attack, either 
direct or indirect, and at the mere suggestion of bribery he grew 
closer than ever. Mitchell, however, did not give up the game, and 
a" last he hit upon the means of opening the tramp’s mouth. Poor 
Abel had a partiality for strong liquor, and the temptation to indulge 
in it was more than' he could resist. The wily Ned was cautious, 


130 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


and contrived to treat his ras^ged companion, not wisely but too well* 
without exciting his suspicion. But even under the soft influence 
of rum and water, the tramp was more difficult to manage than his 
tempter would have supposed possible. It was not until after a long 
convival evening that, Abel’s rough head having fallen at last on to 
the table in a drunken sleep, Ned Mitchell w'as able to stand over 
him and say to himself, with a gleam of savage and doubtful satis- 
faction brealdng through the heavy stolidity of his expression — 

“ You miserable, tattered old beggar ! H^ve I got all out of you 
that you have to tell, I ^wonder? Anyhow, I think I know enough 
to hang the right rascal by. But I shall have to work, work, 
work.” 

On the following day, iust three weeks after he left Bishton, Ned 
Mitchell was again seen leaning over his little cottage ^ate, smoking 
a bad cigar, and staring placidly at the broken stocks in the village 

f reen. The first persons to note his return were the vicar and his 
rother Vernon, who strolled through the churchyard together 
while he was standing at his ^ate. The younger man changed color 
at the sight of the colonist ; the elder wished , him a cheery “ Good- 
day.” 

“Ha, Mr. Mitchell, you can’t keep up your inco^’nito any longer. 
We thought you had g'one back to Australia without bidding us 
good-bye.” 

^ “ Never fear. Parson Brander,” returned Mitchell, drily, looking 
straight into the clergyman’s kindly eyes ; “ there’s another man 
has got to say good-bye to you all before I go back.” He glanced 
from one brother to the other as he uttered these words. Vernon 
kept his eyes on the ground, but he looked vivid. The vicar smiled, 
and gently shook his head. 

“ You’ll have to tell me this riddle by-and-by,” said he, in his gen- 
ial tones. 

“ Whenever you please, vycar,” said Ned. 

And as the two clergy meirpassed on, Ned Mitchell, without deign- 
ing so much as to glance at the younger, raised his hat to the Eev- 
erend Meredith Brander, a most unheard-of mark of respect for him 
to bestow on any dignitary of the Church. 


CHAPTEB XVin. 

Before the first day of his return to Eishton was over, Ned Mit- 
chell had to submit to the threatened interrogatory of the vicar. 

Ned had strolled into the churchyard, and v as examining with a 
rather cynical expression a beautiful marble monument, one of the 
chief ornaments of the enclosure, on which were set forth, at great 
length, in gilt letters, the many virtues of his late brother, “Samuel 
Eobert Mitchell, of Eishton Hall Farm, who departed this life Feb- 
ruary the eighteenth, eighteen hundred and , -aged thirty -nine. 

He was a kind husband, a devoted father, a loyal citizen, a faithful 
member of the Church,” etc., etc. 

And below was a similar epitaph for “Lydia Elizabeth, relict 
of Samuel Eobert Mitchell. ” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


131 


At the foot of this was a text, cut in larger letters than the rest : 
“ In death they were not divided.” 

“They were in life though,” murmured Ned, shaking his head 
slowly. “ Never a meal passed but they were at it, hammer and 
tongs, about sometliing or other. Marble had need to be tough or it 
would split* up into shivers under the weight of lies we put on it.” 

At that moment he became aware that the vicar, who had come 
over the grass from his house, was standing behind him looking 
much amused. 

“ Thinking aloud !” said Mr. Brander. “ Abad habit, Mr. Mitchell 
Imagine what it might lead to if one had any crime on one’s con- 
science.” 

“But parsons are supposed never to commit crimes, aren’t they ?” 

“ Or never to have any consciences 

“No, I won’t say that. The only criminal of your cloth that has 
happened to come'in my way has felt many a prick of conscience, 
I’m ready to wager.” 

The vicar looked at him inquiringly, and did not attempt to hide 
that he felt some anxiety as to the other’s meaning. 

“ Whoever he may be, I hope so, for the credit of my order,” said he, 
gravely. 

“Yes, vicar, and for the credit of your family,” retorted Ned, 


drily. 

Mr. Brander did not look surprised, but only deeply grieved. He 
laid his handsome white hand on the colonist’s shoulder, and address- 
ed him intones of almost fatherly expostulation and entreaty. 

“Look here,” he said ; “ 1 don’t want to preach ; there’s nothing I 
dislike more than preaching out of the pulpit. But I must say a few 
words to you now I have the chance ; and you may be angry with 
me if you like.” 

“All right, vicar, fire away— I mean go on,” he corrected, respect- 
fully. “Let me tell you, it’s not many men of your profession I 
would listen to (except in church, where you all have a prescriptive 
right to do vour worst on us. But I’ve learnt something about you 
quite recently which makes me think you’re different from the rest. 
So, sir, when you please, I’m all attention.” 

“Well, then,” began the vicar in his most persuasive tones, 
“ don’t you think it’s very uncharitable of you to come over here 
with the fixed intention of ruining a man ? And all for what ? What 
o-ood can it do your unfortunate sister now to have the past raked 
up, and her sins as well as those of others dragged again into the 
lio’ht? Now, do you even think, going to work in the spirit you 
do that you are sure to light upon the right person to punish? 
Isn’t it possible that, acting with such a vindictive feeling as ani- 
mates you, you may make an innocent man sutler, for lack of find- 
ing the guilty one ?” , . . 

“No: to be plain with you, vicar, I don’t think anything of the 
kind. As for the feeling which animates me, I think I ought to un- 
derstand that better than anybody ; and I’ll let you know what it is. 
I’m not a generous man, parson ; years ago I might have b^.n, ^r- 
haps, at least as far as mv favorite sister was concerned. But I ve 
roughed it a good bit in tlie world since then, and all the pretty bloom 


132 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


has been rubbed ofF my character, d’ye see? But I’m a just man : 
and I don’t see why, if a man and a woman sin, the woman should 
get all the kicks and the man all the hal:^ence. That’s a vulgar 
way of putting it, but you’ll know what I mean. My poor sister 
goes wrong. I don’t say she was worth much sympathy ; and my 
private feeling has nothing to do with it ; but she had her punish- 
ment. She was ruined, and then brutally murdered. Yes, don’t 
tell me any humbugging stories about her going away of her own 
accord ; I know better. Whatever happenea, poor Nell was not the 
girl to slink oif like that, and never be heard of again. She’d have 
come over to me, if she’d had to work her own passage in men’s 
clothes, as they say the lasses do sometimes. Well, that’s the wo- 
man’s end ; now for the man. He gets the woman’s love, for what 
it’s worth. I don’t put much value on such things myself ; but any- 
how, he gets it. Then when he’s tired of it and of her, and the girl 
grows importunate and her love inconvenient, he quietly puts her out 
of the way, and no questions asked—” 

“Oh, but there were questions asked, and very inconvenient ones 
too,” interrupted the vicar, gently. 

Then he bit his lips, as if he haH not meant to say so much. 

“Aha, vicar, it looks very much as if you had a notion who it is 
I’m driving at !” 

“I don’t pretend to deny that you mean my unlucky brother,” said 
the vicar, gravely. “ To admit that is really to admit nothing, as 
everybody knows he was suspected, just as they know too that I my- 
self never believed he did i!.” 

“You judge him by yourself, I expect. You, being of calm and 
well-regulated temperament, can’t understand how a member of 
your family can be so different from yourself. 

“There you are mistaken, Mitchell, as others have been mistaken 
before you. People think I am calm because I am fat. As a matter 
of fact, I have been so worried over these suspicions of my brother 
that my wife has caught me pacing up and down the 
room in my sleep, too much disturbed on his account to be able 
to rest.” 

“It does you great credit to be so fond of him; I don’t blame 
you in the least for it. You do your duty as a brother, and I’ll do 
mine.” 

“ And I believe you’ll soon come to the conclusion that it is your 
duty as a brother to let the unhappy girl and her history be forgotten 
as soon as possible.” 

“M}’- duty as a brother is to leave your brother alone, in 
. fact !” 

“ Haven’t I told you I believe him to be as innocent of this busi- 
ness as I am myself ? But these suspicions, which he can’t ignore 
—for you take no pains to hide them— are demoralizing in the ex- 
treme. They make him silent, sullen, mistrustful ; in fact they 
breed in him all the appearances of guilt.” 

“ Ay, that they do.” 

“ Supposing that he had committed the crime, don’t you believe 
in atonement ? After ten years of self-denial and hard work and 
sacrifice, might not a man reasonably suppose that his sin was, 


ST. CUTHBERT’S TOWER. 


133 


hnmanly speaking*, washed out, and that he might indulge 
the hope of some human happiness with a woman who loved 
him?” 

Ned Mitchell turned at this, from contemplation of the highly or- 
namental, castellated tower of the little church, to curious considera- 
tion of his companion’s face. 

“Oh,” he said very drily , “Ididn’t know you were encouraging him 
to marry.” 

A deep flush overspread the vicar’s face at this speech. Even his 
striking amiability was not quite proof against the quiet sneer. No 
annoyance, however, appt^ared in his tone as he said— 

“ dertainly I should not think of encouraging him to marry while 
these cruel rumors continue to be spread about him. It would only 
be misery for both of them. But if once the evil reports were 
silenced and forgotten, I should urge him to find happiness in .what 
I have myself found to be the surest and best place to look for it — 
domestic ’ pleasures. ” 

Ned appeared to consider this proposition thoughtfully for some 
moments. Then he said — 

“ It’s curious that you should be the first of your family that I 
ever heard to be of your way of thinking, parson, isn’t it?” 

Again Mr. Bran’der reddened. It was an annoying thing for a 
popular spiritual autocrat to be questioned in this inquisitorial way 
by a man in no way qualified to be a judge of him or his family. 
But his patience was equal even to this trial. He said, very 
mildly — 

“ Yes, I am afraid— that is I believe that is so.” 

“ Well, then, I think it’s too much to expect to find another in the 
same generation.” 

There was a pause ; the vicar looking mildly grieved, Ned munch- 
ing a bit of stick with much relish, while he regarded his companion 
out of the corners of his eyes. 

Evening w as closing in rapidly. A thin mist was gathering under 
the trees on the top of the hill, enshrouding the tombstones and 
softening the outlines of the little white stone church and of the 
pretty ivv-grown Yicarage. Not a sound was to be heard in the 
near neighborhood ; and the noises of the village— children’s voices, 
lowing of cattle, and the carter’s cry to his horses— came up faint 
and subdued from below. 

Suddenly this peaceful stillness was broken by a long and dismal 
howl, which startled the vicar and caused Ned Mitchell to turn his 
head attentively in the direction of his cottage. A minute later it 
was repeated, and before a word had been exchanged between the 
two men on the subject of this strange interruption, a yelping and 
barking began, and mingled wfith th? howls, which still con- 
tinued, until the air seemed to vibrate with the discordant 

sounds. , . , ^ „ .j XI. 

“You’ve brought back a dog with you, I perceive,’ said the 

vic^tr. 

“H’m, yes. I’ve brought two. Fond of dogs, vicar?” 

“ Very. Are vou going to ofier me one of yours ?” 

“ I don’t think so. They’re not exactly the sort Mrs. B. would 


134 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


fancy poking* about her pretty g-arden. They’ve got queer ways 
have my doirs.” 

“ You’ve liad them some time?” 

“ Ten hours. But they were being* prepared for me beforehand. 
In fact, they have been some time in training*.” 

■ “yporting do;^s, eh?” 

“ Yes, and trained for a particular sort of g*ame.” 

Ned Mitchell was rubbing his chin slowly and listening to the 
harsh duet^-with much satislaction. There was a quiet sig*nificance 
in his words and manner which kept alive the curiosity of the 
vicar. 

“ I should like to see these dog*s, Mr. Mitchell,” said he. 

“ Well, sir,” said Ned, with great heartiness ; “ choose your own 
time.” 

“ Suppose, then, we say now ?” 

“Now it is, then.” 

Ned removed his arm from the tombstone against which he had 
been leaning, and led the way out of the churcliyard with alacrity. 

“ This place gives me the horrors to^yards night time,” he ex- 
plained as, "with unwonted civility, he opened the gate for the vicar 
to pass out first. 

“ Whv surely a man of vour sound practical sense doesn’t believe 
in the ghosts and goblins that keep the ignorant out of churchyards 
at night ?” 

“No; but such things can be done in lonely churchyards, under 
cover of the popular horror. You agree with me there, vicar, don’t 
you ?” 

This pigheaded colonist would harp always upon the same strii^. 
As plainly as if he had mentioned the name, his tone intimated 
CuthbertB churchyard and the murder of a girl there by Vernon 
Brander. But the vicar was learning how to “take” him, and he 
assented at once. They crossed the little village green, under trees 
whose bare branches began now to show .small tufts of delicate young 
leaves. There was a strip of garden in front of the cottage ; it had 
little space for flowers, but was well filled with shrubs and ever- 
greens, which grew close up to the lower windoAvs and almost shut 
out ail light from the tiny sitting-room on the left-hand side of the 
door. N^d Mitchell, leaving the path, forced his way through the 
evergreens, and, holding the branches apart with his ha'nds, beckoned 
his companion to the window, before which the vicar perceived a 
couple of strong iron bars had been put up. 

“ Why,” said he, as he picked his way daintily over the moist 
mould, “ is it a menagerie of wild beasts you have in there ?” 

“Something very like it,” answered Ned, as a couple of brute 
faces, with hanging jaAvs and bloodshot eyes, dashed up against the 
windoAv, licking the dusty frames with long red tongues, and jostling 
each other with hungry eagerness. “Whoa!” cried Ned, as he 
pushed up the window, and stretching a fearless hand through 
the bars, stroked and patted their sleek heads with an assured 
strength and coolness which told them he was their master. “I 
must have the glass taken out of these panes— what there’s left of it 
— or my pets will be hui’ting themselves. ” 


8T. CUTHBEBT’S tower. 


13S 


“Your pets!” said the vicar, as he peered into the room, felt their 
hot breath on his face, and listenea to their hungry growling. 
“Well, Mitchell, you have an odd taste in your choice of domestic 
favorites. If my incliuatioii lay in the direction of a couple of tierce 
hounds like that, I think I should consider that old keuuel in the 
back garden a near erioug-h abode for them.” 

“ What, for friends I count upon to do me a great service!” ex- 
claimed Ned, grimly. “ Oh, no! my hounds are already more to me 
than his piff is to an Irishman. No place that’s not good enough for 
me is gooa enough for them. Besides, if they “^were put into the 
kennel they would be almost close under some of your windows, and 
would disturb you and your good lady at night. They make more 
than a lapdog’s yapping when they are uncomfortable, I can tell 
you,” he added,' turning with admiration to his hounds, who were 
snapping savagely at each other, and sniffing the air with dilated 
nostrils. 

“They seem to be hungry,” said the vicar, who, if he did not 
share their master’s admiration, was much interested in the brutes. 

“Well, which of us wouldn’t be, if he’d had nothing to eat all day? 
It’s a part of their education that,” he went on, as he drew back 
from the window and took up an iron spade which stood inside the little 
porch. “Now I’m going to show you how accomplished they are, if 
you care to see. If I bury an old bone with next to no flesh on it in 
any part of this garden, they’ll hunt it up. That is, they will if they 
answer to the warranty I had with them. That’s the accomplish- 
ment I bought them for.” 

“Dear me, very curious,” murmured the vicar, with great in- 
terest. “And this is your first trial of them ?” 

“ Yes. I only brought them back with me in the small hours this 
morning, and tliey’ve been without food ever since.” 

“ And are you sure of getting them out of that room without their 
making a meal of you ?” 

“ I must chance that. I didn’t buy them for lapdogs, and I think 
I can manage them. Anyhow, I intend to try. I suppose, vicar, 
you’ve no mind to help me,” he added, rather maliciously, as he 
turned to go into the cottage. “ It isn’t work for gentlemen of jour 
cloth, I know. I don’t suppose pything fiercer than a toy terrier is 
allowed by the Thirty-Nine Articles.” 

“There’s no mention of bloodhounds in them, certainly ; but I’m 
willing to help you all the same, if I can,” said the vicar, mildly, 
preparing to follow his host into the cottage. 

Ned Mitchell looked surprised. Then he glanced rather contempt- 
uously from the plump hands and neat white cuffs to the handsome, 
placid pink face, and said, drily — 

“ I’m afraid they’ll make rather a mess of ycur linen, parson, if 
they don’t of you. , 

‘^I must chance that, as you say yourself,” said the vicar, calmly. 

Ned nodded, and saying he would be back in a moment, he dis- 
appeared through the porch with a grim chuckle. When he re- 
turned, a few minutes later, holding in his rough fingers a handful 
of mouldy bones, the vicar was leaning against the porch, thought- 
fully turning up his cuffs and his coat sleeves with the most scrupu- 
lous ne&tuefis. 


136 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ Not a very tempting* feast that, one would have thoug*ht.” 

“Well, if tfiey want anything* more tempting than that to make 
them hunt with a will. I’ve been deceived in them, that’s all, and 
back they go to the man I bought them from.” 

As he spoke he took up the spade, and began to search for a suit- 
able place in which to bury the fleshless bones. He decided on a 
^t in the back garden, under the prickly leaves of an auricula. 
There, right under the branches, he dug a deep hole, not without 
much damage to his hands and his clothes. Into this hole he threw 
the bones, covering them carefully with the displaced earth. The 
vicar laughed as Ned flattened down the mould and stamped upon it. 

“You are expecting too much of those unlucky brutes,” said he. 
“ I quite believe that they might ^rub up a nice frCvSh leg of mutton, 
or the body of a newlv-killed raboit. But old bones liKe that, and 
under two feet of earth ! No, my dear Mitchell, it’s not in reason.” 

“ All rmht,” said Ned, putting his hands in his pockets. “If you 
think my little experiment is not worth watching, I won’t trouble 
you with my compai.y or my dogs.” 

“Oh, but of course I must see the end of this. And if your hounds 
do answer your expectations after all, I quite agree with you that 
the best room in the house is not too good for such clever beasts.” 

They went round to the front of the cottage again, and through 
the porch into the narrow passage. Ned brought a lighted canale 
from the kitchen, and proceeded lo search among a bunch of large 
keys which hung from a nail in the wall. Meanwhile the dogs, dis- 
appointed at the disappciarance of their master, from whom they had 
expected food, howled and yelped with redoubled vehemence, and 
flung themselves against the door of the room in which they were 
confined until it shook and creaked on its old hinges. Ned glanced 
at the vicar wdth a sardonic smile. 

“Have you still a mind to go in there, parson?” he asked, rather 
maliciously. “ You clergymen are holy men, as we all know, but 
things have changed since Daniels time, and I doubt, no offence to 
you. whether he’d have got off’ so well if he’d be-en pitched into a 
lion s cage at the Zoo as he did among those old Persians !” 

The vicar looked nervous, certainlv. But he still stuck to his 
resolution of going into the room. Netf shrugged his shoulders, and 
whistled softly, staring into his companion’s face as he fumbled with 
the keys, an^ seeming rather to enjoy the notion of the change 
which would come over that pink, plump, mildly jolly countenance 
when the fangs of one of the hounds should meet in the clerical 
anatomy. He felt quite sure that it was the vicar’s entire ignorance 
of hungry bloodhounds and their little ways which g’ave him such 
an appearance of placid pluck. 

“ Are you read v ?” he asked, as he put the key in the door. “ We 
shall have to dasli in pretty quick to prevent the brutes from com- 
ing out.” 

The vicar nodded, and came close up beside him. Ned gave him 
a last and, as it were, a farewell look, and opened the door. The 
hounds, with hungrv growls and jaws dripping with foam, rushed 
at the opening. Ned Mitchell was too quick for them ; he was in 
the room, wim the door closed behind him, before either of the brutes 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


137 


could g*et so much as his nose outside. Quick as he' was, however, 
the portly vicar was before him, and was well in the middle of the 
small room by the time the door closed. 

Then Ne-d Alitchell found, cool as he was, that in fancying himself 
able to master these two fierce brutes, he had reckoned without his 
host. In a moment he discovered that it was only when satisfied with 
food and carefullly muzzled, as they had been for their journev in the 
small hours that morning, that he could attempt to cope with them 
successfully. Both together they now flew at him, springing, the 
one at his throat, the other at his right hand. The attack was so 
sudden, so fierce, that he staggered back against the door, in danger 
of being overpowered, and struck out wit 6 unsure aim, failing to 
beat them off. He had been forced to drop his candle when the 
hounds set upon him, and it was almost in darkness that the struggle 
went on, the man cursing and the animals growling, while they bit 
at and worried him with '13 savagery of ravenous hunger. 

The vicar was standing, motionless, in the middle of the room. 
Ned saw his portly figure in outline between him and the faint light, 
and in the midst of his own occupation wondered, not having any 
great respect for the physical powers of the Church, that Mr. Brander 
did not edge further away from the scene of combat, or shoAV 
some other sign of nervousness. 

“Shall I help you?” asked the vicar, tranquilly, when the struggle 
between man and hounds had gone on for several exciting moments. 

Ned was too busy, trying to keep off the dogs, to express the 
astonishment he felt at these words and the tone in which they were 
spoken. 

“ Yes, for Heaven’s sake, yes, if you can !” he panted out. 

He had scarcely uttered these words in answer, when the vicar 
came to his aid with a promptitude and dash which a professional 
tamer of beasts could scarcely have exceeded. Seizing by the throat 
first one of the hounds and tnen the other, he choked them off his 
half-bewildered companion, and held them, yelping and gurgling, 
while Ned, savagely angry at “ the parson’s^’ superiority more than 
grateful for his timely help, picked upand relit the candle with affect- 
ed unconcern. 

“ Well done, vicar !” said he, in a tone which betrayed that he was 
not particularly well pleased. “If you can manage to hold the 
brutes while I nnd the key, we’ll soon be shut of them.]’ 

“Don’t hurry on my account, ’’said Mr. Brander, quite pleasantly. 

His bland tone made Ned’s blood boil. The colonist resolved, since 
he seemed to like his occupation, not to curtail his pleasure. He 
took twice the necessary time to find the key and place it in the lock. 
Then, before turning it, he inclined his head over his shoulder, and 
asked, maliciously— 

“ Getting tired?” 

“ Not a bit !” said the vicar, mildly. 

“Hang you !” muttered Ned below his breath. • 

The next moment he heard a rush and a growl, and felt the teeth 
of one of the hounds meet in his right leg. 

“ Hallo !” cried Mr. Brander ; “ can’t you manage him?” 

Ned did not answer. Between pain and rage, indeed, he would 


138 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


scarcely have been articulate if he had done so. He g*ave the dog 
a vicious kick, which sent him howling awajr, and, turning the key 
in the lock, beckoned to the vicar to follow him out. Before doing 
so, however, Mr. Brander had to dispose of the animal he was still 
holding. His arms, strong as they were, had be^un to ache with 
the strain, for the dog had writhed and struggled the whole time. 
Then Ned, holding the candle high, and examining the vicar’s face 
with exceeding interest and equal malevolence, saw upon it an ex- 
pression very different from its habitual, placid mildness. The blue 
eyes were flashing ; the handsome mouth was drawn in a tight, 
straight line ; the clear-cut features seemed to have in a moment lost 
their plumpness, and to have become hard and cruel ; while the soft, 
white hands looked strong and sine'wy as they clasped the dog’s 
throat. Ned watched him curiously. The vicar looked into the 
animal’s bloodshot eyes with the expression not merely of a master, 
but of a tyrant. Lilting him with both hands high into the air, he 
gave the dog such a shaking as set him gurgling and howling and 
twisting his body with pain, and flung him to the far end of the 
room to join his companion. Then he crossed the room without any 
haste, and went out at the door, which Ned shut and locked. 

“ And now,” said the vicar, “how about the experiment?” 

Mitchell, who was engaged in an examination of his injured leg, 
looked up q^uickly. 

“Well,” he muttered, in unwilling admiration, “you are a cool 
hand, I must say.” 

“Cool !” exclaimed the vicar as pleasantly as ever ; “ one needs to 
be cool with acquaintances who invite one into a sitting-room fur- 
nished with a couple of bloodhounds and nothing else. Ugh !” he 
cried, as he suddenly noticed the condition of his bands, whi^ were 
smeared with blood and foam, “ what a mess those brutes have made 
me in !” 

Ned laughed shortly, and continued to stare at him with the deep- 
est interest. 

“It looks very unsuitable now, that same mess, when you are all 
the parson ^ain,” he said, drily. “ But, curse me with book and 
with bell if I don’t think that a minute a^o you looked as if you could 
stand the sight of blood as well as any smdier.” 

“ And why not ?” asked Mr. Brander, who had this time wiped 
his hands, pulled down his cuffs, and almost recovered his usual ex- 
quisitely appearance. “ People seem to for^^et that we parsons were 
not born ni the surplice, and that we have ml been through the same 
training as other men from whom a little readiness with wrists and 
fists is expected at a matter of course.” 

“That’s true, parson. But we’d always looked upon you as one 
of the meek ’uns. Now if it had been your brother 

“ Ah, poor Vernon ! I think all the spirit has been badgered out of 
him.” 

“Well, but, parson,” said Ned, still gazing at him with the same 
steady and curious stare, “I think you have spirit enough for two.” 

Mr. Brander turned and met his look straight, eye to oye. 

“ Yes,” he said quietly and firmly ; “and when it comes to an at- 
tack upon my brother, you’ll find that spirit a more serious thing to 
deal with than you expect.” 


ST. ctuthbert’s tower. 


139 


They had come throug’h the porch out into the g*arden asrain, and 
were standing very near together, with the setting sun throwing a 
weak and watery li^ht upon their faces. A passer-by, noticing their 
attitudes, looks, and tones, would have guessed that a challenge had 
been thrown down and taken up. 

The two men bade each other good-night in a manner which 
showed on each side both caution and mutual respect. And having 
retired each to his house, they instinctively tried to get a sight eacn 
of the other. The clergyman went to his study, and seated himself 
with a book at the winaow ; Ned Mitchell took the air at his back 
door. The vicar remained calm and smiling, and looked amused 
when he caught Ned’s anxious look. The colonist took things less 
easily. 

“That parson ’ll be a very difficult beggar to tackle,” he said to 
himself almost des^ndingly. “ I could manage Vernon by himself, 
but with this old ‘ Sdap-your-sides’ behind him it’ll be a long job— 
a very long job.” 

But he comforted himself before going to bed by a look at his 
bloodhounds ! 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The Reverend Meredith Brander had not been Vicar of Rishton and 
compulsory student of the wiles of frail humanity for fourteen years 
for nothing. When from his study window he saw Ned Mitchell — 
after many yawns, several sleepy stretchings out of his arms, and an 
occasional nod of the head — retire from his back door and shut him- 
self in, it seemed to the vicar by no means certain that his neighbor 
had gone to bed. So he withdrew a little way into the shelter of his 
window curtains, and remained on the watch, beguiling the time by 
composing a very pretty opening for next Sunday morning’s sermon, 
wherein the rising moon, as it showed more and more of his laurels, 
was used to tipify the grace of repentance illuminating the dark 
places of the heart. 

And the result justified Mr. Brander’s doubts. TS'ed Mitchell did, 
it is true, go to bed, but he speedily got up again, impelled to this 
freak partly by the pain in his injured leg and partly by his un- 
satisfied curiosity concerning theaccomplisnments of his dogs. The 
vicar smiled as, after an hour and a half’s watching, he saw Ned’s 
candle glimmering weakly through the blinds ; first on the upper 
floor of the cottage, and then on the lower. Presently Ned himself 
re-appeared at the back door, which he set wide open, before pro- 
ceeding to draw on his hands a pair of stout leather gloves. Then 
he retreatedpnto the cottage again, and gave the vicar t - me to open his 
window a little way very softly. As he did so, sounds of yelping and 
scufiiing reached his ears from the cottage, and a few moments later 
the hounds rushed out into the garden. 

The month was May, and in this cold north country the trees 
both in the vicar’s garden and in that of his neighbor were as yet 
only thinly covered with leaves ; so that there was little to hide the 


140 


ST. cuthbekt’s tower. 


movements of the animals, which, after a preliminary scamper 
round the house and an attempt to g*et through the bars of the gate, 
began to sneak about close to the walls and under the shrubs, ^ sniff- 
ing, prowling, scratching, like uncanny creatures half seen in the 
moonlight, making the branches of the evergreens sway and rustle, 
and uttering from time to time a yelping, whining sound, as they 
grubbed and searched restlessly for food. , The vicar pulled aside his 
curtain and watched with great interest. The hounds were getting 
—whether by accident or led by scent he could not yet tell — 
nearer and nearer to the shrub under which Ned Mitchell had buried 


the untempting bones. Ned himself, from the upj^r floor of the 
cottage, was intently watching them. Hither and thither the brutes 
roamed, in apparently random search for something to appease their 
hunger. With nose pointed always to the earth they crept slowly 
along, or bounded a few paces, sometimes raising the night echoes 
by a deep howl, more often uttering the low, wolfish sounds of half- 
starved savage creatures. But ainiless as their wanderings seemed 
to be, often as they deviated from a straight course to it, they did 
both come, slowly but surely, nearer to, the auricula. The vicar 
rose from his chair ; Ned Mitchell hung his whole body out of his little 
window. As the animals drew closer to the place where the bones 
were hidden, they seemed to the careful eyes of the watcher to grow 
more excited, to yelp and whine more savagely, to sniff the cold 
earth with keener nostrils. At last the muzzle of one of the hounds 
touched the prickly leaves of one of the lowest branches of the auri- 
cula. He drew back with a snort of pain. A minute later, however, 
drawn by his irresistible instinct, he returned, and, making a furi- 
ous attempt to pass under the low branches, retreated again, whin- 
ing and savage from the effect of the pricks he had received. The 
third time both dogs drew near together, and this time — regardless 
of the scratches inflicted by the thorny boughs on their backs^they 
pushed their way under the auricula, and began to grub and to 
scratch up the earth with might and main. 

In an incredibly short space of time, considering the depth of 
earth with which Ned had covered them, the bloodhounds had dug 
up the buried bones and were crunching them ravenously with 
their powerful jaws. Ned, uttering a short laugh of triumph, raised 
his head and caught sight of the vicar, who now, regardless of 
concealment, was pressing close to the window panes of his study a 
face which looked of a greenish pallor in the moonlight. Ned watched 
him with an intent, glaring gaze for a few seconds ; then, shutting 
his little window rapidly and noiselessly, he slipped out of the 
cottage by the front door, and, making his way round to the back 
stealthily under cover of the evergreens, crept along ’in the shadow 
under the dividing wall until he stood, unseen by the vicar, almost 
under the latter’s window. After the lapse of a few moments his 
curiosity was rewarded. 

“Poor Vernon! My poor brother!” murmured the vicar with a 
heavy si^h 

Then Nec 
satisfaction 

He crept back into his little house by the way he had come, nar- 


1, hugging himself and indulging in a knowing smile of 
, heard the study window close. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


141 


rowly escaping- the attentions of his hounds, which, having quickly 
finished the scanty meal the dry bones afforded them, seemeu inclin^ 
to try, as more nourishing, the person of their master. He went in- 
doors, armed himself with a plate of raw meat in one hand and a short 
whip in the other, and calling them into the house succeeded in shut- 
ting them up once more in the room they had previously occupied. 

“ Good dogs ! good dogs !” he said, approvingly, as he stood at the 
crack of the door and watched them snarling over their the food. 
“ That’s nothing to the meal you shall have when you’ve hunted out 
the next lot of md bones I shall set you grubbing for.” 

And with another grim chuckle as ne closed the back door and 
gave a glance at the now deserted study window of the Vicarage, 
JNed Mitchell retired for the night with a light heart and a good con- 
science. 

Next morning Ned was earlj on the watch, in spite of the fact that 
the wound in his leg gave him a good deal of pain. He saw the 
vicar go out a couple of hours earlier than usual ; and instead of 
walking, as was his custom in the morning, he was on his cob. Ned 
nodded to him as he went by, and timed his absence by a ponderous 
gold watch which was with him night and day. 

“An hour and twenty minutes,” he said to himself, as Mr. Bran- 
der returned at an ambling, clerical pace, and, meeting the nurse 
with his little son descending the hill for their morning walk, gave 
the boy a ride in front of him as far as the stables. “ Yes, parson ; 
just long enough to ride to St. Cuthbert’s, catch your brother before 
he started on his parish work, have a quarter of an hour’s chat — 
about the weather, let us say — and be back in time for your own 
morning walk.” 

Perhaps Ned Mitchell’s shrewd face betrayed his suspicions ; per- 
haps the wily vicar’s knowledge of men was greater than any that 
books on divinity could impart ; for, seeing the colonist leaning as 
usual over his garden gate, his shrewd eyes lazily blinking in the 
spring’ sunshine, Mr. Brander nodded, wished him good-morning, 
and added, cheerfully — 

“ On the watch, eh ?” 

“Perhaps, vicar,” answered Ned, touching his hat, with a know- 
ing twinkle in his eye. 

“ How are the pets this morning, after their night’s work?” 

“Night’s work?” echoed Ned, who had entertained the mean sus- 
picion that the vicar would not own to his noctural observations. 

“ Yes, I did a little bit of spying too last night,” answered Mr. 
Brander, who seemed to take a frank and boyish delight in an open 
and declared warfare with his neighbor. “ How’s the leg this morn- 
ing ?” 

Ned, who chose to think that the vicar might have prevented the 
injury to his limb if it had so pleased him, answers with a tone 
wliich was in marked contrast to the good humor of the other. 

“ It’ll do,” he said, shortly. “How’s your brother this morning ?” 

Again Mr. Brander seemed to take a buoyant pleasure in his an- 
tagonist’s cuteness. , 

“My brother is very well,” he said, smiling. “And I m sure, 
whatever you may think, that he would be quite pleased to hear of 
your kind inauiriea.” 


142 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“Well, -we shall see about that,” said Ned. “Now, come, parson,’* 
he went on, persuasively, ‘\you might just as well confess what I 
know— that you rode over to" St. Cuthbert’s this morning* to put him 
on his guard against my tricks.” 

“ And may not one with good reason put an innocent man on his 
guard against an avowed enemy 

“ I am not your brother’s enemy, Mr. Brander. I am the enemy 
of the man who murdered my sister. It is you who are saying that 
they are one and the same.” 

.“No, no, no!” broke out the vicar, with vehemence unusual to 
him. “ The fact is, you have come here with what you consider a 
strong case against the poor fellow, and everything you hear goes to 

f ad up that case. ‘ If I believed in my brother’s guilt, do you suppose 
should leave my little daughter in his care, as I have done for the 
last week, and intend to do for another fortnight?” 

“ Why not parson ?” said Ned, very quietly. “ Neither you nor I 
are simple enough to think the worse of a man because he happens 
to have made a Tittle slip by the way. The man who murdered my 
sister didn’t say to himself, ‘ I will change my whole course of life 
and become a murderer,’ as if it. were a profession. No, he is going 
about the world at this moment just like you or me, doing his daily 
duty as well as he can, and perhaps feeling sorry enough for that 
little slip to better his life in atonement for it.” 

“Indeed, indeed he is,” broke in the vicar, earnestly. “If you 
could see how my brother works : how he tries b.y every means — ” 
“Hadn’t we better leave your brother’s name out of the dis- 
cussion?” asked Ned, with a touch of dry insolence. “ You are not 
anxious to tix the noose round his neck yourself, I suppose.” 

The poor vicar looked beyond measure crestfallen and disconcerted. 
After all his assertions of his brother’s innocence, to have betrayed 
hini.self like that ! He stammered and tried to explain away his un- 
fortunate admission ; but not succeeding very well, he made haste 
to cut short the conversation and retreat into the house with his little 
son. 

NeA Mitchell was not left long without an object to interest him. 
He remained sunning himself at his garden gate for some minutes 
after Mr. Brander’s disappearance, and then retired into his cottage, 
from one of the tree-shaded windows of which he soon saw a person 
approaching, at sight of whom his rugged features seemed to tighten, 
the only sigri they ever gave of unusual excitement. It was Vernon 
Brander. From the curious glances which the clergyman cast in 
the direction of the room in which the bloodhounds, now asleep after 
a good meal, were still confined, it was clear he had been fully in- 
formed concerning them. He stopped before the garden fence, peer- 
ing among the evergreens with evident interest. But as Ned ap- 

E eared at the door, with the intention of a little talk with him, he 
urried on towards the Vicarage without another glance at the cot- 
tage. Ned looked after him with a curling lip. 

“ I suppose some people would admire that fellow, with his lanky 
face and his good deeds. But I never did have anv fancy for your 
martyrs, especially when their private life won’t bear looking into.” 
And after watching the clergyman until he had turned into the 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


143 


private road, Ned directed his attention to two visitors, who, attract- 
ed by certain rumors about the occupant of the cottag*e, and the 
menagerie he had set up there, had joined their forces on the way to 
pay Mr. Mitchell a morning call. 

These visitors were Mr. I)enison and Fred Williams. Fred had by 
no means got the better of his violent admiration for Olivia Denison. 
But having found her persistently “ out ” when he called at the farm, 
and persistently curt when he met her out of doors, he had consoled 
himself for her frigidity bv taking a trip to New York, whence he 
had now not long returned. To signalize his recent achievements in 
the way of travd, he wore a wide-brimmed hat and a sea-sick com- 
plexion, and carried a revolver in a leather belt. This was his first 
meeting with any of the Hall Farm people since his return, so that, 
on coming face to face with Mr. Denison, who was passing through 
the farmyard gate, he overwhelmed him by an outburst of effusive 
cordiality which astonished that gentleman beyond measure, but 
raised his spirits, and soothed him with the feeling that here was a 
friend. 

Mr. Denison was one of those simple-natured men who are only too 
ready to find a friend in any one who addresses to them a kindly 
word. Things had been going badly with him. Having started 
farming with all the skin-deep energy of the enthusiastic amateur, 
he had long ere this discovered the perversity of the whole animal 
and vegetable kingdoms : the determination with which sheep die of 
the rot, pigs take the measles, beans and peas refuse to come up at 
the proper time and crops fail on the slightest provocation, or on 
none. A suspicion had begun to take root even in his ingenious 
mind that there was more in farming than one would have thought 
while going over a farm ; and a stronger suspicion still that, if 
things did not soon “take a turn,” his new profession, instead of 
making his fortune, would land him in the Bankruptcy Court. He 
could not fail, moreover, to be alive to the sturdy animositv of his 
rival, John Oldshaw, and to the ever-increasing pleasure which that 
amiable person showed on meeting him, as his own prospects of 
finally getting the Hall Farm at an easy rent seemed to grow better. 
Olivia, who understood her father’s temperament too well to com- 
municate to him the smallest fact which was likely to trouble him, 
had never uttered the name of Fred Williams in his presence, ex- 
cept to say with much haughtiness that he was a quite insuiferable 
person. But Mr. Denison, who never disliked anybody, would have 
foen quite ready to set her aversion down to groundless prejudice 
when Fred listened sympathetically to a rambling account of the 
last outbreak of the feud with Oldshaw. 

“The fellow’s such a cad, too,” complained Mr. Denison, mildly. 
“Not that I should think the worse of him for not being a gentle- 
man,” he added. “His son is a nice lad, a very nice lad, and we 
get on together admirably. If he were only in one’s own class there 
might be a Montague and Capulet end to the business, I fancy ; for 
if he were a little better educated I should almost fancy he was in 
love with my daughter Olivia. You may have seen Olivia ?” he 
continued, naively, with a touch of paternal pride. 

Yes, Mr. Fred Williams might have seen Olivia, but was wise 
anough not to own to more than this at present. 


144 


BT. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


“ Well, the use that young* fellow has been to me — me, a man old 
enough to be his father— is something remarkable. In fact, I don’t 
mind telling* you” (Mr. Denison didirt mind telling* anybody) “that 
if it hadn’t been for his hints, I should never have been able to carry 
on the farm at all. Why, if I give him— on the strict Q. T. you 
know, for it mustn’t come to his father’s ears— a commission to buy 
me a few sheep, or a well-bred shorthorn, and his father sends him 
to market for the same purpose, he’ll contrive to get me the best, Mr. 
Williams — me the best — I assure vou.” 

“Indeed !” murmured Fred, with a deferential courtesy entirely 
new to him. 

“ Ye.s, I assure you it is so. Now I am not one of those old fools 
who fancy that a "young man will do such a thing out of friendship 
for a man of his father’s generation. I see there is something be- 
hind it,’’ continued Mr. Denison, astutely. “And I confess,” he 
went on, growing more confidential as his small friend, while listen- 
ing more sym[)athetically than ever, linked his arm within that of 
the farmer, “that I almost wish my daughter hadn’t been ‘brought 
up a lady,’ as the saying is, when I see what a very good thing 
young Oldshaw and I could have made of it together— he with his 
knowh*dge of practical farming, and I with my— with my know- 
ledge, my— er— my knowledge oif the world, in fact.” 

“A very good idea, sir— a very good idea,” assented Fred, en- 
thusiastically. “ At the same time you might find a son-in-law who 
could helj) you without looking* so far beneath you. I say so far,” 
he went on, “ because there is a something about you that — er — 
makes you sort of diflerent from other people, you know ; a dignity 
or high breeding or something ; and perhajis your daughter may 
have a touch of it. I say perhaps, you know, because I scarcely 
know Miss Denison.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Denison, swallowing the bait with all simplicity, 
“ I suppose there is, as you say, a certain cachet about a man who 
has lived so much in town or near town as I have. And whatever is 
be.st about me my Olivia has certainly inherited. But whoever my 
cliild marries, it must be for her own good ; not for mine.” 

Simple, selfish Mr. Denison thoug-ht th(*re was something rather 
praiseworthy in this declaration. Fred listened shrewdly. 

“ It must "be much worse to be badly off, or — or not to be exactly 
flourishing, when one has a family to care for and provide for,” he 
sugg’estt'd. 

Mr. Denison seized his hand. 

“ My dear lad, that's just it,” said he, almost earnestly and in all 
sincerity. “A man on a farm by himself must be in heaven. On 
the same farm, with a family, he may be in— in quite another 
place.” 

“ I see, I see,” murmured Fred, pressing his arm against that of 
the older man. “Money market tight, and all thatj” 

“Tight, 1 believe you !” assented Mr. Denison, bubbling over with 
his confidences, as weak men do when they have had to exercise an 
unwont(‘d self-repreasioii. “You would scarcely believe what the 
tightness amounts to sometimes. A young man in your position 
couldn’t realize it,” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


145 


Oh, yes, I could thoug*h. Nothing* of that sort that you have 
ever borne is as bad as what my guvnor’s gone through lots of times. 
It was before he was blessed with me, and of course he don’t talk 
about it ; but you may take my word it’s true.” 

“ Dear me !” said Mr. Denison, as if this was almost inconceivable. 
Though in truth the airs of patronage the elder Mr. Williams liked 
to assume had often caused him to jibe gently in the bosom of his 
family at the waste of pounds by men who were better used to pence. 

“ But it seems worse for vou, you know— don’t seem natural some- 
how. Seems as if it were the right and proper thing for you to have 
lots of money. Makes me uncomfortable to hear ^mu haven’t, and 
— and all that sort of thing, vou know.” 

He gabbled out this broken speech with an air of modest con- 
fusion which touched Mr. Denison, whose finances were at a dis- 
tressingly low ebb. He pressed the young fellow’s arm in silence— 
^ rather awkwardly, but with much feeling. Fred went on, 
quickly — 

“ Now don’t be offended : you mustn’t be offended. I’m not of 
enough account in the world mr a man like you to be offended with 
me. But if you wouldn’t mind— you needn’t think anything of it — 
if you should be tight, I mean strait, anything like hard up, in fact, 
I should really feel it quite an honor if you would — ” 

Poor Mr. Denison was quite broken by this offer, which came 
upon him unexpectedly. He protested, stammered, grew red in the 
face, and dim in the eyes. He was a gentleman, sensitive, and not 
without pride. But he was weak-natured — harassed by difficulties 
he saw no way out of. Although he repeatedly refus^ Fred’s re- 
peated offers and with perfect sincerity ; he did so in a tone which 
encouraged the young man to think that his yielding was only a 
question of time and of an adroitly chosen moment. 

“ At any rate, you’re not offended with me for making the sugges- 
tion ?” Fred asked at last. 

He was glad to see that Mr. Denison looked rather disappointed to 
think that ne was taken at his word. 

“Offended! No, indeed, my dear boy. One can’t afford to be 
offended at a friendly offer nowadays.” 

“ I daresay, you know, I haven’t put it as nicely as I might, and 
that’s why you go on refusing. Of course my manners are not up 
to yours. You’re refined ; I’m not. But I mean what I say, and 
that’s something ; if you can’t be refined and all that, any way it’s 
something to be sincere.” 

“It’s everything, in my opinion. I shall not forget your disin- 
terested kindness, w illiams. But what put it into your head I can’t 
think.” 

“ Came like a flash, you know,” answered the young fellow, 
promptly. “ Gentleman— handsome, dignified gentleman, credit to 
the parish— looks humped. What’s the cause ? Sure to be the oM 
thing— money. Besides, we’ve a mutual interest, you and I ; you’re 
fond of dogs. I suppose you’ve come up to see those hounds they 
say Mitchell’s got?” he suggested. 

For, on reaching the garden paling of Church .Cottage, they had 
both stopped, as if their journey were at an eu<J. 


146 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ Well, yes— no ; I had come to see Mitchell, certainly ; and I had 
heard about these hounds he’s brought back with him. But that 
wasn’t altogether my reason for coming.” 

He would have babbled out his reason with his usual ingenuous- 
ness if Ned had not interrupted the conversation by calling “ Good- 
morning!” approaching them in a leisurely manner at the same 
time. 

“ I know what you’ve come for,” he said, with a nod to the younger 
man. “ They’re in there. Don’t be too familiar, unless you want to 
leave a pound of flesh with them.” 

And he jerked his head back in the direction of the room where 
the bloodhounds were kept. Fred Williams did not wait for further 
conversation, but raising his hat with great ceremony to Mr. Deni- 
son, and shaking his hand w'armly, he went through the gate and 
up to th6 cottage window. Ned threw at him with some disdain 
wliat may be described as half a glance. 

“ Unlicked cub, that!” he said, not much caring whether the sub- 
ject of his remark heard it or not. 

The guileless and grateful Mr. Denison demurred at this, and Ned 
did not think the point worth discussing. 

“I suppose you didn’t come up to talk about dogs ?” he asked, 
drilv. 

“Vhy, no. As a matter of fact,” said Mr. Denison, with the hesi- 
tation of a person unused to come straight to the point, “I have 
heard odd reports about ; I— I — ” 

“ Have come to the wrong shop, Mr. Denison, if you expect to hear 
any village gossip from me.” 

“ Quite so. quite so. But everybody knows now why you’re 
here,” said Mr. Denison. “And as the man they say you’re after is 
an admirer of my daughter’s—” 

“‘They say’ a lot of things, Mr. Denison, which I’d advise you 
not to listen to.” 

“ But I’ve been quite discourteous to this gentleman on the strength 
of your suspicions”’ 

“ Well, I should find some stronger ground to go upon before I 
was discourteous again.” 

“ Then you don’t believe these dreadful stories?” 

“I know nothin of any dreadful stories.” 

“ Mr. Mitchell, I beg you to be plain with me. Am I right in re- 
fusing to have anything to say to— a certain clerical neighbor of 
ours P’ 

“Mr. Denison, if my advice is worth anything, have nothing to 
do with any clerical neighbors.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell, that is enough for me. I see you wish 
to steer clear of libel. But I understand your warning, and I thank 
you. Vernon Brander shall not enter my house again.” 

He wished the colonist good-morning, and went nack to his farm 
with a more satisfied conscience. His wife, then, had not been so 
far wrong in her estimate of the Vicar of St. Cuthbert’s, though her 
treatment might have been open to criticism. But Ned Mitchell 
looked after him with the tight-lipped smile of contempt with which 
he was always so ready. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


14 ? 


'* Does he really think a few mtimhlin^^ words from him will turn 
that strong’-willed lass, I wonder?” thought he. 

And dismissing the subject with a short laugh of derision, his 
thoughts turned to his hounds, and to a plan which he was nourish- 
ing very near his heart. 

That very day he resolved to put it into practice. In the early part 
of the afternoon, therefore, he strolled down to St. Cuthbert’s, found 
the churchyard gate securely fastened, and, making a circuit of tlie 
walls, discovered a point w'h'ere it was of no very formidable height. 

“ I think my beauties could do that !” chuckled he to himself. And 
returning straight to his cottage, he remained within doors until the 
sun began to go down. 

Then, going, as he now did without fear, into the room where the 
hounds, again ravenous with hunger, were yelping and savagely 
howling, he cowed them with a small whip, which he did not scruple 
to use cruelly, and securing the animals in a leash, left his little 
dwelling with them. The hounds were fierce, strong, and difficult 
to manage. Ned, who still limped in pain from the effects of the bite 
one of them had given him the night before, cursed them below his 
breath one moment and burst out into enthusiastic praises of them 
the next. He made his way with them direct to St. Cuthbert’s, going 
over the fields. It was growing dusk ; the walk was a lonely one ; 
he did not see a single human being as he made his way slowly along, 
surprised at the ever-increasing pain his wounded limb caused him. 

At last he came in sight of the ruined tower, the patched-up walls 
of which bulged out dangerously, threatening constantly to fall, a 
mass of ill-assorted fragments of brick and stone, wood and tiles, into 
the disused graveyard oeneath. 

“Steady, my beauties, steady!” said he to the yelping hounds. 
“Your work is going to begin, my dears! Steady now, steady!” 

And he made his way, with the hounds still straining at the leash, 
to the spot he had picked out that afternoon. 

“ There are some old bones for you in there, or I’m much mis- 
taken, that will be worth a king’s ransom to me, and a good home 
for the rest of your days to you, my beauties.” 

The hounds growled and sniffed, and leaped up about him, as if 
madly eager to begin their grim hunt. Close up to the wall of the 
old graveyard he came, and peered over at the irregular mounds, 
overgrown with rank grass and weeds. There was little daylight 
left, but his keen eyes could still see dimly into each dark corner, 
filled with old stones and decaying vegetation. His hands were 
trembling, stolid as he was, witli his eagerness to let the hounds go. 
His eyes were hungrily roaming over the neglected enclosure where 
he believed the clue to his secret to lie, when suddenly a sound came 
to his ears which paralyzed his arms and seemed to stop his fast- 
drawn breath. It was ‘the voice of a little child. 

Looking again more intently than before into the chaos of broken 
and misplaced tombstones, he saw, peering out from behind a tuft of 
shao-gy briar and weed, the face of a little child. It was tiny Kate 
Bralider. Ned looked at the fierce brutes and shivered. Another 
moment and they would have been loose in the graveyard, ravenous 
and blood hungry. Then the expression of his face changed. 


148 


ST. cuthbeet’s towee. 


“ Yes, he has g'ot the best of this move ; curse him ! But the 
game’s not plaved out yet.’* 

And, with a lowering face, and slow, heavy gait, he turned, with 
his yelping brood, towards the road home. 


CHAPTER XX. 

The stolid calmness of Ned Mitchell’s everyday demeanor, which 
was but a mask for strong passions and still stronger resolutions, 
broke down entirely under his disappointment. If tne mouldy old 
graveyard of St. Cuthbert’s had been a paradise of sweet sights and 
sounds and scents, he could not have been more maddened by the 
impossibility of entering it. Even the innocent child herself, whose 

E resence among the ruined graves had prevented him from letting 
is hounds loose, shared his anger. 

“ They can’t keep the brat there always, that’s one thing,” he said 
to himself, as he limped along. 

He found the return journey 'over the fields more tedious than he 
—a strong, healthy man, used to bear great fatigues without any 
ill efi'ect— could have thought possible. The hounds were growing 
every moment more troublesome, straining harder at the leash, 
snapping and yelping the while. The wound in his injured leg was 
beginning to smart and burn, the muscles were swelling most pain- 
fully, ana long before he reached Rishton Hill every step was caus- 
ing' him acute agony. The last field he had to cross brought him 
out into the road almost op}X)site the farmyard gate of Rishton Hall. 
Leaning against the gate and stroking the shaggy head of a poor 
old mongrel which had attached itself to the farm since she had 
been there, was Olivia Denison. She looked very sad, and stared 
out at the fields and the grey hills beyond with a face out of which 
all the bright girlish vivacity seemed for the moment to have gone. 
She startea and blushed on seeing Ned Mitchell, who had succeeded 
in reducing his unruly pets to something like submission, but whose 
temper had been by no means improved in the task. 

“ Oh !” she cried, running through the p*ate and coming fear- 
lessly within the range of the leash, “are these the dogs I’ve heard 
about ?” 

“ How should I know what you’ve heard?” snapped Ned. “ But I 
know what you’ll feel in a minute if you come within reach of the 
brutes’ jaws.” 

For answer to this speech, Olivia stooped and laid her hand with a 
firm touch on the head of the animal nearest to her. Whether he 
had been cowed by Ned’s course of treatment, or whether there was 
something peculiarly sympathetic to the animals in her bold manner 
of approaching them, the aog only gave an ungracious growl, but 
made no attempt to resent her advances more actively. 

“And are these — bloodhounds?” she asked, almost with bated 
breath. 

“Yes, that’s what they are,” answered Ned, as if he had been 
challenged. 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


149 


Olivia’s breath came more quickly as, still lookings down at the 
brutes, and even plaving with the ears of one of them, she listened 
and evidently read the meanings of his tone. 

“ What have you g-ot them for ?” she asked, raising her head sud- 
denly, and looking at him askance. 

“ I’ve got them to play sexton forme in St. Cuthbert’s churchyard ; 
to dig up some bones there that were buried with less ceremony than 
they ought to have had.” 

“There are a good many bones in that old churchyard. How do 
you know your hounds will dig up the right ones ?” 

“ It’s sixty years since any body was buried there— until ten years 
ago.” 

“ And if you should happen to come upon these bones, and even 
be sure they are the right ones, how will you be sure who put them 
there ?” 

“I don’t say I shall. But at any rate it will be a step in the right 
direction. And I shall have my eve on any likely folk who may be 
about, and see how they take the discovery.” 

“It seems to me you’re no better than a detective,” burst but 
Olivia, hotly. 

“ Well, I hope I’m no worse,” said Ned, laconically. 

Olivia turned her head away, looking hurt and anxious. 

Ned, who liked and admirexl the girl, felt a little sorry. He moved 
off with his dogs, and began to whistle ; but the pain of starting 
again made him break short off and draw his breath sharply through 
his teeth. This attracted Olivia’s attention ; she watchea aim as he 
labored up the hill, and before he had gone very far she ran after 
him. 

“What’s the matter with you, Mr. Mitchell?” she asked. “You 
walk lame to-night. Have you hurt yourself ?” 

“ No. And what’s that to you if I have?” he answered curtly. 

“Nothing, if you don’t think sympathy worth having.” 

Ned stopped. The strong-limbed, plucky women he had got used 
in Australia, and from whom he had chosen his own wife, were 
rather lacking in graceful feminine ways ; so this pretty speech and 
gentle tone, coming from a girl whose spirit he admired, touched and 
softened him. 

“What are you up to now?” he asked, gruffly enough, but not 
without betraving signs of a gentler feeling than he would have 
owned to. “ 1 know better than to think you’d trouble your head 
about an old bear like me if you didn’t want to get something out 
of me.” 

“ Well, I want to get the pain out of you— and perhaps a little of 
the surliness too,” she added, archly. 

“ The first would take a doctor, and the second would take a 
magician.” 

“Are you going to have a doctor?” 

“No. I can’t go after one myself, and my establishment doesn’t 
include anybody I could send. ” 

“ I’ll send for one. I’ll get one of the farm boys to go ; or, if there 
isn’t one about. Mat Oldshaw will go, I know.” 

Ned looked at her cynically. 


150 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ Poor Mat,” said he. “ And to think I was fool enong'h myself 
once to run errands for a girl who thought herself as far above me 
as heaven from earth, when all the time she was dying of love 
for another chap too. Just the same— just the same.” 

Olivia blushed and looked annoyed, but she answered, ouietly— 

“ Mat would do a kind deed for any one, Mr. Mitchell. And I 
should be sorry for him to think that it is a sign of great wisdom to 
be discourteous to a woman.” 

“Very good,” said Ned grimly. “ Sor^ I haven’t time to let you 
exercise your wit on me a little longer. Good -night.” 

He hobbled up the hill with great and evident difficulty, his dogs 
Blinking behina him. He was absolutely faint with pain by the 
time he 'reached home. 

It was quite dark in the cottage when he arrived, and he made his 
way at once to a shelf in a passage where a box of matches and a 
candle were kept. But he felt from end to end of the shelf without 
being able to find either. The dogs, having become excited since 
their entrance, sniffed about the floor, yelped and pulled afresh at the 
leash, impeding his movements. He had shut the front door on en- 
tering, relying on his candle and match box ; so that he could not even 
see the forms of the struggling animals to avoid them. Two or three 
times he stumbled and set them growling as he groped his way to- 
wards the room where he kept them shut up. A dizziness was 
creeping over him, which seemed from time to time almost to over- 
come him, while occasionally for a moment it seemed to leave his 
head again perfectly clear. He remembered, or thought he remem- 
bered, that he had left the door of the room wide open for ventilation ; 
but now he went the whole length of the wall, feeling with his disen- 
g^ed hand, without finding any opening. 

The hounds meanwhile were growing more excited— more trouble- 
some than ever ; so that, in his dizzy and wearied condition he could 
not move or even think with his usual precision. Their behavior, 
however, at last roused a suspicion in his mind. 

“ Somebody’s been in here,^’ he muttered to himself. “ And the 
dogs know it by the scent.” 

He had grown bewildered in the darkness, and no longer knew in 
what part of the passage he was standing, as the dogs, still straining 
to get free, pulled him from side to side. Suddenly he heard the 
faint creaking of a door. The dizziness was coming upon him again, 
and he turned, in|a|half -blind, stupefied way ; saw, or thought he saw, 
a faint light come as if through an open door, and the next moment 
found himself lying on the floor, while the sound of the hasty shut- 
ting of another door behind him fell upon his dull ears. After this 
he became unconscious. When Ned came to himself, it was a long 
time before he could remember, even in the v^uest manner, the ex- 
periences he had lust gone through. He fancied himself in one of 
the dungeons he had read about in his boyhood, which bold, bad 
barons built under their castles for unlucky prisoners who fell into 
their hands. In strange contrast to the prosaic reflections which 
occupied his mind in every-day waking hours, the most fantastic 
fancies now passed through his brain ; that he was a prisoner, flung 
down here by an enemy ; that fetters of red-hot iron had been fasten- 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


151 


ed to one his leg’s. He thoug-ht he heard the sounds of every-day life, 
muffled by th&thick stone ceiling between, in the castle above'him ; 
the noises of animals ; sounds of a man’s voice ; then of a woman’s. 
He recog-nized the tones of the latter, he felt sure, thoug’h he could 
not renaember the possessor’s name. Then suddenly a light was 
struck in his dungeon and a hand touched him, and it flashed upon 
him that he had come back, that he was in his own cottage lying on 
the stone floor of the passage, with a grey -bearded man kneeling be- 
side him, and a woman’s skirt brushing against his feet. 

“He must have fallen very heavily,” whispered the woman. 

And Ned’s senses came fullv back to him. 

“Of course,” he murmured to himself, “it’s Miss Denison.” 

“He can’t have fallen as heavily as that unassisted,” said the 
grey-bearded man, wfflom Ned now knew to be the doctor. 

“Do you mean that he was thrown down?” asked Olivia, in a 
whisper of tragic earnestness. 

“ Yes. Look at the blood on the stones.” 

“ Oh !” The girl’s teeth chattered with horror. 

There was a pause, while the doctor lifted him gently. 

“That’s the leg he limps with,” said the girl. 

The doctor touched the wounded limb gently, but the action made 
Ned moan. 

“ What shall I do with the dogs?” asked Olivia, presently, in the 
same low voice. “I think they are kept in one of these rooms. My 
father said so.” 

“Turn the brutes loose in the garden.” 

But Ned, though the movement caused him acute pain in his in- 
jured leg, struggled up on one arm and shook his head feebly. 

“No, no,” he said, in a weak, husky voice ; “ I’m going to be ill, 
I know. Take me upstairs to my room, and put the dogs into the 
room on the opposite side of the landing.” 

“Oh, come, we can’t have that. It wouldn’t be a proper arrange- 
ment at all— most unhealthy,” objected the doctor. 

Ned glared at him, and instantly began to try, in a dogged manner, 
to get up. 

“ If you won’t do it, or let it be done, why, hang you ! I’ll do it 
myself,” he panted out. 

“ I’ll do it, Mr. Mitchell,” said the girl’s clear voice. 

Ned heard her go upstairs, soothing and encouraging the hounds, 
which scrambled and shuilied up after her. 

“That’s a good plucky ’un,” he then remarked to the doctor. 

And satisfied now that his savage pets were safely disposed of, he 
fell back on the doctor’s arm. For there was a curious buzzing 
noise in his ears, and his head felt alternately very heavy and very 
light. He wanted to keep his senses clear until the young girl 
should come down again, but it was only by a strong and exhaust- 
ing effort that he succeeded. As soon as she reached the bottom 
stair, Olivia heard him addressing her in a faint voice. 

“ Thanks— thanks for what you’ve done. I’m not ungrateful. 
Now get me some one— to look after me— who’s got a little nerve. 
For I don’t care— how they treat me— but they must take care— of 
my dogs. For somebody waffts to get at my dogs, I know. And 


152 ST. cuthbert’s tower. 

they must be prevented — prevented. You’ll see to this. Promise 
me.” 

“Yes, I will, I promise,” said Olivia, in a firm voice, afraid that 
she was speaking* to a dyiiiff man. 

She had scarcely uttered the words when he ag’ain became in- 
sensible. 

Olivia was in sore distress as to the manner of fulfilling* her pro- 
mise. On the one hand, she had to keep her word by finding* a 
nurse for him who would not be afraid of the hounds ; on the other, 
she was particularly anxious that, if he should grow delirious, his 
ravings should not be heard by any one who would chatter about 
them. 

“ We must get him to bed,” said the doctor, as she stood debating 
this difficulty. “The young man who came for me — is he about?” 

“MatOidshaw? Oh, yes, I expect so. He stayed in the garden 
when we came in. He wouldn’t go away without asking if there 
was anything more he could do.” 

“Ask him to come in, if he is there, please.” 

Olivia went out into the garden. As she passed under the porch, 
she saw a man slink limping* away from the side of Mat, who was 
standing near the gate, and pass behind a bushy screen of ever- 
greens. She sprang forward to the gate, but the man had gone out 
of sight. 

“ Mat,” she asked, in a frightened voice, “ who was that ?” 

“NobWt a tramp,” he answered. “Nobody to freight yer. It’s 
ten yeer an’ more since he wur in these parts.” 

“Oh, no, it isn’t,” said Olivia, decidedly. “He was here four 
months eigo. His name is Abel Squires, isn’t it?” 

“Ay, that be his name, sure enough,” answered Mat, with sur- 
prise. “ Wheerdid you happen upon him?” 

“ Never mind. I want to know what he’s doing about here.” 

“ He wants to get a sight o’ Mester Mitchell, he says.” 

“ But what did he sneak away like that for when he saw me come 
out, instead of waiting to ask if he could see him ?” 

“ He doan’t want to be seen aboot here, he says.” 

“Mat,” cried the girl, earnestly, after a few moments’ thought, 
“Mr. Mitchell has been knocked down and hurt. The doctor wants 
you to help carry him upstairs. I wonder if it was this tramp who 
did it.” 

“Noa, Miss, but Ah knaw who did,” said a rough voice so close to 
her that it startled her. 

She turned and saw the one legged man whose conversation with 
Vernon Brander she had overheard in the churchyard. The ground 
was so soft with recent rains that his wooden leg' had made no noise 
as he approached. Olivia drew her breath sliarply through her 
teeth and felt cold with terror as she looked at his weather-worn, 
strangely inexpressive face. Here, she thought, was the man whose 
silence about that miserable night’s work of ten years ago Vernon 
had had so much difficulty in procuring. And lie had come with 
the express purpose of seeing Ned Mitchell, whom she looked upon 
as Vernon’s avowed enemy. 

“You know who knock^ Mr. Mitchell down ?” she said, faintly. 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


153 


“Ay,” said Abel Squires, with a nod. 

She had a fancy that this man was trying* to’implicate Vernon, and 
she scarcely dared to frame her next question. 

“You mean that you saw him do it?” she asked after a short 
pause. 

“ Ah werr standin’ in’s bit o’ garden at back theer,” said he, jerk- 
ing his head in the direction of the cottage. “ An’ Ah see a mon go 
in, and after a bit Ah see him coom aht. An’ if Mester Mitchell wur 
knocked deaun,” he went on, dog'gedly, “Ah say Ah kiiaw t’ rnoii as 
did it. An’ it beant no good to ask me who t’was, mr Ah mean to keeap 
me awn counsel ; Ah’m used to’t.” 

Olivia did not know what to make of the man. Though his voice 
was rough, his manner of speech was mild, and betrayed no hostile 
feeling towards anybody. 

“ Are yon a friend of 'Mr. Mitchell’s?” she asked tentatively. 

‘ ‘ Ay, nodded Abel, good humoredly . ‘ ‘ He’s never done naw harm 
to me.” 

Seized with a bold idea, Olivia scanned the man narrowly from 
head to foot. 

“ Will you tell me what business brought you to see Mr. Mitchell?” 
she asked, frankly. 

Abel Squires examined the girl’s face closely in his turn. 

“ What do you knaw abaht it ?” he asked, shortly. 

“I know that he is trying to find out a secret ; a secret which I 
think you know.” 

“ Maybe Ah do ; maybe Ah don’t ; anyhow, Ah doan’t prate abaht 
it !” 

“ Then what do you want to see Mr. Mitchell for ?” 

“ Ah think he got summat aht o’ me last toime Ah see him ; Ah 
want to knaw how mooch.” 

The girl’s face cleared. 

“ Could you nurse a sick man ?” she asked. “Mr. Mitchell is ill, 
delirious, and I don’t want to trust him to any prattling old woman.” 

“Ay,” said Abel, promptly ; “ Ah can do’t.’^ 

“Come in with me, and let us see what the doctor says,” said 
Olivia, leading the way into the cottage with eager footsteps. 

She wa;- surprised at her own daring in taking this step ; but she 
argued with lier.self that if the tramp, possessing Vernon’s secret, as 
she knew he did, should wish to turn informer, there was no possi- 
bility of preventing him, while he would be within reach of Ver- 
non’s influence as long as he was attending on the sick man. If, on 
the other hand, he was loyally anxious to keep it, there could be no 
better person to watch over the man from whom she wished to 
keep the truth. 

Tne doctor asked Abel a few questions, and agreed that he might 
be tried as sick nurse. Tramp though he was, Squires was a man of 
some intelligence, and had picked up many a scrap of practical know- 
ledge in the wanderings in which nis lire had been almost wholly 
spent. Before the doctor and Olivia had left the house, they felt 
tnat the patient was in no unskilful hands, while the hounds were 
under control of a man entirely without fear. 

Ajb she left the cottage, after listening fearfully for some minutes 


154 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


to the incoherent muttering’s of its unlucky tenant, Olivia met Mat, 
who was dutifully waiting* in the g*arden to learn whether she had 
any more work for him. She stopped short on seeing him, and said, 
“ Oh !” in some confusion. 

“ What is it y” asked Mat, whose loyal admiration for her made 
him quick of apprehension. “ You want summatmore done. What- 
ever It mebbe, Ah’in ready to do ’t.” 

“You are good, Mat,” slie said, gratefully, with a bright blush. 
“Nobody is ever as ready to help me as you, or so quick to know 
when one wants help.” 

“ Ah knaw more’n that,” said Mat, encouraged by her praise. “Ah 
knaw. Ah guess, what you want done.” 

The color in Olivia’s cheeks grew deeper than ever. She said no- 
thing, however ; so Mat, after a short pause, went on — 

“You want somebody to knaw what happened.” 

Olivia laughed bashfully. “You’re an accomplished thought 
reader, Mat. Who is the person ?” 

“Parson Vernon.” 

“ Well, don’t you think he ought to know, as— as he’s a friend of 
Mr. Mitchell’s r 

“ Av,” said Mat. “ Ah’ll go straight off to him neow.” 

“ Ttiank you. Mat. And be sure you don’t forget to tell him that 
Abel Squires is going to nurse him.’’ 

“Ah’ll mahna that. Good-night, Miss Olivia.” 

“ Good-night, Mat. I don’t know what I should have done with- 
out you this evening.” 

Mat blushed. “ You knaw. Miss,” he said, in a bashful, strangled 
voice, “ you’re as welcome as t’ flowers in Meay to aught as Ah can 
do — neow and any toime.” 

And he pulled off his cap awkwardly without looking at her, and 
ran oif down the hill before he had even stooped to re^ace it ; while 
Miss Denison, much more leisurely, started on her way home to the 
farm. 

Long before Ned Mitchell’s illness was over, poor Olivia had grave 
reason to repent her choice of an attendant. Old Sarah Wall; who 
had been in the habit of coming in for a couple of hours daily to do 
the cleaning, was now installed permanently on the ground floor, 
which she had all to herself. The front door was kept on the chain, 
and to all inquirers it was Mrs. Wall’s duty to answer that Mr. 
Mitchell was getting on very well, but was not allowed to see any 
one. If any further questions were put to her, or a wish expressed 
to see his attendant, she put on a convenient deafness, and presently 
shut the door. No one was admitted but the doctor, even when Ned 
was well enough to sit up at the front window, with one or other of 
his fierce hounds at the side of his chair, and his odd-looking attend- 
ant in the back ground. The evident good understanding which ex- 
isted between master and man filled Olivia with foreboding, and 
caused still deeper anxiety to Vernon Brander, who, having called at 
the cottage day after day, and failed to extract any information from 
Sarah V^ll, deliberately walked round to the back garden and climb- 
ed into one of the windows of the upper floor by means of the water 
butt. Here he came face to face with Abel Squires, who, hearing the 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


155 


noise, came out of his master’s room to find out the cause. He tried 
to retreat on seeing* Vernon, but the latter seized his arm and de- 
tained him. 

“Look here,” said he, in a low voice, but very sternly ; “you’ve 
broken faith, I see.” 

Abel’s wooden face never changed. 

“Well,” said he doggedly, “iOi doan’t say Ah haven’t. Boot it 
was forc^ aht o’ me wnen Ah wur droonk. That’s all Ah have to 
say.” 

And to demonstrate this he folded his arms tightly, and met the 
clergyman’s eyes stubbornly and without flinching. 

“So that man knows everything?” asked Vernon, in a low voice, 
glancing at the door of Ned Mitchell’s room. 

“Pretty nigh all as Ah knaw.” 

Vernon’s face was livid. He leaned against the window-sill and 
looked out fixedly into the Vicarage garden. 

“He can’t do anything,” he muttered. 

“ He means to try,” said Abel. “ Hast tha seen t’ dogs?” 

“No, but I’ve heard about them ; and they won’t help htm much,” 
answered Vernon, quietly. 

“Tarn’t easy to trick ’un,” said Abel, warningly. “He’s none 
so over sharp, but he’s sure.” 

Vernon said nothing to this ; after a short pause, he bade Abel 
good-day very shortly, and went downstairs. Old Sarah Wall was 
standing at the door, in colloquy with some one outside. She cried 
out when she felt a man’s hand on her shoulder ; and Vernon, hastily 
telling her to be quiet, drew back the chain and let himself out. He 
started in his turn on finding himself face to face with Olivia Denison. 
Being overwhelmed with anxiety on his account, it was only a natural 
result of herlgirlish modesty that she should appear freezingly cold and 
distant in her manner towards him, even though her curt greet- 
ing caused him evident pain. After the exchange of a very few in- 
different words, Vernon raised his cap stiffly and left her ; while she, 
angry with him, still more angry with herself, walked slowly down 
the hill, more anxious, more miserable on his account than ever. 

It was on the ninth day after the beginning of his illness that Ned 
Mitchell, whose impatience to be well materially retarded his re- 
covery, could at last bear confinement no longer, and seized the 
opportunity of a short absence of Abel’s in the village to make his 
way once more down to St. Cuthbert’s churchyard. He wanted to 
take his hounds with him, but decided that it would be rash to do so 
until he was more sure of his own powers of reaching his destination. 
For he found, much to his own disgust, that he felt weak and giddy. 
However, he set out on his walk as quickly as he could, taking his 
way over the fields to escape observation. Evening was closing in 
—an evening in late June, warm and balmy. He chose to set down 
to the summer heat the dizziness which he felt creeping over him 
long before the ruined tower of St. Cuthbert’s came in si^t. 

When he reached the lane which divided the last field from the 
churchyard, his head swam and he staggered across the road and 
caught the gate for support. After a minute’s rest, he raised his 
heS and looked over into the enclosure. Was he delirious again? 


156 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


Had the wild fancies of his illness come back to torment him ? Ha 
saw before him, instead of broken, moss-g’rown headstones, rank 
weeds, and misshapen mounds of earth and rubbish, a churchyard 
as neat and trim as that of Hishton itself, with tombstones set straight 
in the ground, well gravelled paths, and borders of flowers. The 
churchyard wall was garnished along the top with broken glass, and 
two notice boards, respectively at the right and left hand of the gate, 
bore these words : “ Visitors are requested not to pluck the flowers,” 
and “Dogs not admitted.” 

This last inscription reassured Ned as to the state of his own brain. 
He laughed savagely to himself, and after a few minutes’ rest, 
which he spent in grim contemplation of the altered churchyard, he 
turned to go home. 

Whether he had “got his second wind,” or whether the rage he 
felt stimulated his powers, Ned returned home much faster than he 
came. Just outside the cottage gate he met Sarah Wall, wringing 
her hands and muttering to hersmf in deepest distress. 

“ What’s the matter with the woman?” asked Ned, in his surliest 
tones. 

“ Oh, sir! the dogs, the *dogs! It warn’t my fault ; it warn’t 
indeed! How they got out I know no more than the babe un- 
born!” 

“Get out! ’’shouted Ned, with fury. “What the d — . You 
wretched old woman. Are they lost? Have they got away ?” 

“Oh, sir, don’tee speak like that ; don’tee look so ; it warn’t my 
fault. Abel should have been there to look after ’em.” 

Ned kept down his rage until he got out of her what he wanted to 
know. 

‘ ‘ What happened then ? Tell me at once, quietly. Where are the 
dogs?” 

“ Oh, sir, they’re in there,” said the old woman, pointing with a 
trembling finger to the cottage. “ And now if you was to flay me 
alive could I tell you how — ” 

But Ned did not stay to listen. He was up the garden path and 
through th^ porch before she could utter half a dozen words. An 
oath and a 'howl of rage burst from his lips at the sight which met 
his eyes. Stretched on the floor of the stone passage lay the dead 
bodies of the two bloodhounds, foam and blood still on their jaws, 
their attitude showing that they had expired in great agony. Ned 
hung over them for a moment, touched them ; they were scarcely 
cold. Then he stood bolt upright with a livid face. 

“They have been poisoned!” he whispered, in a harsh, gurgling 
voice. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Ned Mitchell was not the sort of man to waste much time in the 
indulgence of an outbreak of passion. After a few minutes’ con- 
templation of the dead bodies of his hounds, he pulled himself to- 
gether and prepared for action. There had flashed into his mind the 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


157 


recollection of the evening* on which his illness beg*an. He had for- 
gotten until that moment all the details of his arrival home, his g*rop- 
ing* about for a lig ht, the sounds he had heard as of a person moving 
in one of the rooms, and the g*limpse he had caug'ht of an opening 
door as he fell sensekiss to the floor. It now occurred to him for the 
first time, as he went over the small incidents of that nig*ht one by 
one, that the fall 'from the ellects of which he was sull'ering* was 
caused by a heavy blow from some one who had forced an entrance 
into the little cottag*e during his absence. 

“ A murderous blow !” he muttered to himself as— alone, in the 
dusk, with his dead hounds encumbering the ground at his feet— he 
stag^red along by the walls, reproducing the sensations he had felt 
just before his fall. “ It must have been in here that he was hidden,” 
he w-ent on to himself, as he found himself at the door of the room 
where he had first kept his hounds. “ For it was on my right hand 
as I came in that I heard the noise ; I am sure of it.” Speaking thus, 
slowly, to himself, he at last turned the handle and went into the 
unused room. It w^as musty and close, and he had to open the win- 
dows before he could breathe easily. He had a match box in his 
pocket ; striking a light, he examined every corner of the empty 
room with the utmost care, and discovered at last, close to the wall 
in a nook where the light from the windows scarcely penetrated, two 
dri(*d-up, evil-smelling scraps of meat. “Ah!” said he to himself. 
“Poisoned, of course ! And as the first attempt wouldn’t do, he had 
to try again.” 

He removed the meat carefully from the room, and hid it away for 
further examination. Poor, trembling Mrs. Wall having by this 
time returned to her place in the kitchen, he went in and asked her, 
in a dry voice, if she had heard anybody about the place in his 
absence. 

“ No, sir,” quavered she. “ Indeed I didn’t.” 

“You were out, of course?” 

“ No, sir ; at least, I'd only gone just half-way down t’ hill as far 
as t’ post office, to get in a pound of sugar because you’re out of it, 
sir ; and I give you my word, sir. I’d never ha’ gone if I hadn’t ha’ 
thought as Abel was upstairs, and — ” 

“And you came back just a minute or two before I did?” 

“Yes, "sir ; not so very long.” 

“ Not long at all, or you’d have had the whole village up here, 
poking and prying into every corner, I know,” said Ned, grimly. 
“And when you opened the door you saw the dogs lying as they are 
Ijdng now?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And you’ve heard nobody about?” 

“No, sir ; at least, no, not to-day.” 

“ Not to-day ! Then you have heard somebody in the place since I’ve 
been ill ?” 

“Oh, no, sir, not nobody to matter— nobody at all Only onedav, 
as I wur talking to Miss Denison from t’ Hall as wur at t’ door ask- 
ing about you, I wur pushexi aside quite sudden like ; and when I 
looked it wur parson Brander.” 

She lowered her voice to a whisper as she uttered the name. For 


i58 


ST. cuthbert's tower. 


in spite of her cautions way of putting* it, Sarah Wall felt a decided 
suspicion that the Vicar of St. Cuthbert’s, against whom her preju- 
dice was strong, was at the root of this business. 

“ I don’t know where he come from, sir,” she croaked on, rather 
mysteriously. “But it wasn’t through t’ door, for it wur on t’ 
chain.” " . . , 

' Ned, having got out of her all she had tell, turned with an abrupt 
nod, left the kitchen, and again went out into the garden. Abel 
Squires, who was hobbling up the hill on his crutch, redoubled his 
pace when he saw his master at the gate. 

“So ye’re aht. Ah see,” he called out, as soon as he was near 
enough. “ Ah guessed how ’t would be as soon as ma back wur 
turned.” 

As he drew nearer he saw by his master’s face, not only that he 
was greatly fatigued, but that something serious had happened. 

In a few short sentences Ned told him the events which had oc- 
curred in his absence : his visit to St. Cuthbert’s, the finding of the 
dogs’ bodies, and the discovery of meat which he believed to be 
poisoned. 

“Wall tells me,” said he, “ that Vernon Brander got into the place 
one day while I was laid up.” 

Abel nodded. 

“Reight enough: so he did. Got in at t’ ooper floor by t’ water 
boott.” 

“ What reason did he give?” 

“ Wanted to knaw heow mooch you knew. So Ah told him. He’s 
been going abaht loike a churchyard ghost ever since. Ah met ’un 
just neow on’s way oop to t’ Vicarage.” 

“ To the Vicarage?” 

“Ay.” 

“well, I’m going up there now.” 

And he turned and began to walk up the hill. Abel hopped after 
him, assuming his most persuasive mien. 

‘ ‘ Doan’t ’e, Mester Mitchell— doan’t ’e, ” he entreated. ‘ ‘ It’s naught 
but cruelty to him as hasn’t done it ; an’ as for him as has, yoif ve 
got plenty in store for him wi’out worriting of him now.” 

Ned paid not the slightest heed to these remonstrances, but went 
on his way, still closely attended by Abel the length of the Vicarage 
garden wall. 

Abel redoubled his pleadings as they caught sight of the two 
brothers and Mrs. Brander walking in the garden. 

“Look ’e here, Mester Mitchell,” said he, in a rough voice that, 
plead as he would, could get no softer. “Ah’ve kept away from 
Rishton ten year fur to please parson Vernon, ’cause Ah’m t’ only 
chap as see what happened that neight, an’ he wouldn’t trust me" to 
hawd ma toongue. What Ah could do fur ten year, couldn’t you do 
fur a neight ?’^ 

Still Ned walked stolidly on, vouchsafing no answer, until the 
party in the garden caught sight of them, and the Vicar of Rishton 
came down to the side gate to meet them. As he drew near, Abel, 
after one futile attempt to drag Ned bodily away, tried to escape 
himself. But Mr. Brander was too quick and too strong for him. 


ST. cuthbekt’s tower. 


159 


“Why, who have we here?” he said, curiously, seiziuff Squires 
by the arm, and looking* into his wooden face. “Isirt it Abel 
Squires, the man who picked up my father’s signet ring on the 
Sheffield road?” 


“Ay, sir,” said Abel, very bashfully, while he persistently avoided 
meeting the vicar’s eye. 

“I thought so,” said the vicar, good-humoredly. And without 
noticing the lowering expression of Ned’s face, he turned and shook 
his hand. “ Glad to see you about again, Mr. Mitchell. I must tell 
you a story about our friend here,” he continued, putting a kind 
hand on the tramp’s shoulder. “Years ago, when I was scarcely 
more than a boy, my father lost a signet ring one night as he was 
returning home from a sick bed. It was an old-fashioned thing ; much 
too large for his finger. He never expected to see it again ; but a fort- 
night afterwards who should turn up but Abel Squires, inquiring of 
the servants if anybody in the house had lost a ring. He had picked 
it up, and having no means of advertising his find, had perseveringly 
called at house after house on the outskirts of Sheffield where he 
found it, until he at last got directed to my father as the owner. 
He was so much struck by the circumstance that he declared it 
should be treasured up for ever by the head of the family as a re- 
minder that the world had contained at least one ideally honest 
man.” 

“ You’re t’ head of t’ family, yet you don’t wear it though, par- 
son,” said Abel, glancing at his hands. 

He had listened in much confusion to the account, changing from 
his wooden leg to his sound one and back again, and looking as if 
the vicar’s speech contained some revelation particularly painful for 
him to hear. 

The vicar, who h^ been touched by his excessive modesty, was 
surprised at this retort. 

“No, I don’t wear it now,” he said, laughing genially. “I did 
though, until I had the misfortune to lose it myself, some years ago. 
It was too large for me, as it had been for my father, and I never 
knew how it had gone. And you were not about to find it for me.” 

“Nay, sir,” was all Abel said, with one shy glance at the by- 
standers. 


They had formed a strange group while the vicar’s recital lasted. 
Each one seemed to know that something serious was impending, 
and to listen, in silence not all attentive, to the vicar’s innocently 
told reminiscences. He was the only person at ease in the little 
circle. Ned was standing solid and square, listening to Mr. Bran- 
der’s little story with a contemptuous face ; Vernon Brander, who 
seemed of late to be growing daily more lean, more haggard, kept 
his eyes fixed upon Ned with an expression of undisguis^ apprehen- 
sion ; while Mrs. Brander, whose great black eyes were flashing 
with excitement to which she allowed no other vent, looked steadily 
from one to the other of the rest of the group, as she stood a little 
away from them all, motionless and silent, like a beautiful statue. 
When the vicar’s prattle had come to an end, there was a pause. 
He seemed himself to become at last aware that the minds about 
him were occupied with some more serious matter, and he turned to 
Ned with a look of inqmry— 


160 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“Is anything* the matter, Mr. Mitchell?” he asked. “You look 
less happy than a man should do who has just been released from the 
confinement of a sick bed. Can I advise you or counsel you in any 
way ? Would you like to come into my study ?” 

l^ed raised his head and looked at him like a bull in the arena. 

“No,” he said, savagely, “ the garden will do for what I have to 
say. It’s only this : My bloodhounds have been poisoned”— a lit- 
tle shiver of intense excitement seemed to run through the group— 
“ And by the same hand that killed my sister. Now I give tne man 
who did "both those acts till this time to-morrow to confess publicly 
that he’s been a great hypocrite for ten years, with good words on 
his lips and bad thoughts in his heart. But if in those f our-and-twenty 
hours he don’t confess, then he shall be buried at the country’s ex- 
pense before the year’s out.” 

There was dead silence after this speech, which Ned delivered, not 
in his usual coarse, loud tones, but in husky, spasmodic jerks, and 
with the manner of a man bitterly in earnest. The vicar listened 
with great attention ; Abel Squires seemed to wish, but not to dare, 
to move away ; Vernon shook from head to foot with high nervous 
excitement ; while Mrs. Brander moved to the side of her brother-in- 
law, and stole her hand within his arm. 

Not a look, not a movement, was lost on Ned, whose features sud- 
denly broke up into a grim and horrible smile as he noted the action 
of the lady. It was a smile of cunning, of mockery. But Mr. Bran- 
der had treated him with dislike and contempt. 

“ You think,” said the vicar of Eishton at last, “ that the man who 
poisoned your dogs was the same who made away with your sister?’* 

“I don’t think ; I know.” 

“ I don’t want to be hard on you, Mitchell. But it seems to me 
that you feel the latter loss the more acutely of the two.” 

“It showed,” returned Ned, doggedly “ that the fellow is no better 
minded now than he was then.” 


“ You might say so if they were human beings whose lives he had 
taken,” said the vicar, continuing his gentle remonstrance. “As 
they were only dogs, I am inclined to take a more lenient view • 
while admitting that this unknown person ” 

“No, not unknown,” interpolated Ned. 

The vicar went on without noticing the interruption. 

“ — had no right either to trespass on your premises or destroy your 
dogs, allowance must be made for the state of mind of a desperate 
man, who believes, rightly or wrongly, that these animals will be 
used to discover his guilt.^’ 

“ Well, vicar,” said Ned, who had been staring straight into the 
clergyman’sface with a cynical smile, “I’ve said my say; that’s 
what I came here for. Now it’s done. I’ll wish you, and your good 
ladv, and Mr. Vernon there, a very good-night."” 

'f'he vicar held out his hand. 

“Good-night. You will not be offended with me for saying that I 
hope Heaven will soften your heart,” he said in a low voice, in the 
gentle, almost: ajwlogetic tones which he always used when touching 
upon religious inatters. 

“No, not offended,” said Ned, in a hard, mocking voice. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


161 


“And will you come to our hay -making* to-morrow?” Mr. Bran- 
der continued in a lighter tone. “It will be a very simple sort of 
festivity, but it may serve as a change from your hermit-like soli- 
tude and your gloomy reflections.” 

Ned began to shake his head rather contemptuously, muttering 
something rather surlily about being “ too old to pick buttercups.” 

“Mr. williams, of the Towers, will be here,” went on the vicar, as 
pleasantly as ever. “He is exceedingly anxious to make your ac- 
quaintaMce.” 

The expression of Ned’s face changed. 

“ Is that the Mr. Williams who has been bothering so about re- 
pairing the old church'down there— St. Cuthbert’s ? he asked, with 
affected carelessness. 

/ And the vicar’s expression changed also. 

“ I believe he did talk about it at one time ; but as my brother ob- 
jected to it, he had to give up the idea,” he said, in a low voice, 
glancing at Vernon, who was talking to Mrs. Brander. 

“ Ah P’ said Ned, with a look down at his boots and a nod. “ Yes, 
I’ll come, vicar, and thank you kindly for your invitation,” he said, 
more graciously. “I can’t make hay, but I’ll be most happy to 
stand about and look pretty,” he added, with a short lau^h. 

Raising his hat ceremoniously to Mrs. Brander, whom he ad- 
mired, and whose indifferently concealed dislike therefore irritated 
him, Ned Mitchell turned on his heel without so much as a glance 
at Vernon, and made his way down the hill to his cottage, leaning 
on the arm of Abel Squires, 'who had bade “ t’ gentle fowk” a hum- 
ble and bashful farewell, and hastened to the support of his patient, 
upon whom the fatigue and excitement of the evening had begun to 
tell heavily. 

Solemnly and almost in silence, Meredith Brander and his wife 
then parted from Vernon, who took his lonely way over the fields in 
a state of suppressed excitement so acute that on reaching St. Cuth- 
bert’s Vicarage he was highly feverish, with a burning head, hot, 
dry hands, and a mouth that seemed parched and withered. He lay 
awake for the greater part of the night. Next morning, his old 
housekeeper, not hearing him rise as usual, went up to nis room, 
and founa him in a restless, uneasy sleep. Seeing that something 
was wrong with him, and deciding that it w'as the result of over- 
work, Mrs. Warmington applied a characteristically rou^h-and-ready 
remedy. She ransacked his wardrobe, selecting everything that was 
fit to wear, and quitted the room as softly as sue had entered 
it, leaving pinned to his pillow the following note:— 

“I see you have had no sleep and are unwell. So I have taken 
away your clothes and locked the door. If you are ready to promise 
to stay in bed all the morning, and not to go out to-day, knock three 
times, and I will bring up your breakfast.” 

When he woke up, Vernon gave the three knocks, after very little 
hesitation. He felt so ill that ne was glad of an excuse to spend an 
idle day— glad too that in this way he could escape the ordeal of the 
hay-making at his brother’^, and a meeting with Olivia Denison, 


162 


ST. cuthbbrt’s tower. 


For, haunted as he was by the remembrance of her gentle touch, of 
her softly uttered words of sympathy as he sat beside her by Mrs. 
Warming-ton’s fireside, he felt that another cold look, another frigid 
bow, like those she had given him on their last meeting, would be a 
torture more than he could bear. 

Vernon Brander was far too ignorant of the peculiarities of the 
feminine character to know the significance of that coldness ; he 
thought that it meant in her what it meant in him, a firm deter- 
mination that all sentiment between them should be for ever at an 
end. While, as every one knows, if that had been the case she would 
have been gentle, tender, anxious to soften the cruel blow she was 
preparing for him, anxious also that there should, after the parting, 
be a little sentiment left. As it was, poor Olivia, on her side, was 
suffering a good many torments. While never allowing herself to 
believe the worst she neard against Vernon Brander, her common 
sense was continually warring with her feelings, and calling her 
all sorts of unflattering names for her prejudice in his favor. 
She hated and despised him, she loved and respected him, all in a 
breath. She resolved never to see him again, she determined to en- 
courage him in spite of all opposition, in the course of the same day. 
But tfie value of the former resolution may be gua^ed by the fact 
that she made it very strongly on the morning of tne hay-making, 
and was bitterly disappointed when, on arriving with her father and 
step-mother at the big field by the churchyard, where the tent had 
been put up, she learnt from little Kate that he had sent word to say 
he could not come. 

But Olivia was not to go without admirers. Approaching the tent 
as she came out of it was Fred Williams, dressed in a light grey suit 
of a check so large that there was only room for one square and a 
half across his narrow little chest, a very pale brown hat, and a sal- 
mon-colored tie. He greeted Mr. Denison effusively, and asked 
Olivia if he might get her a cup of tea. 

“No, thank you,” said she, coldly. 

But her father, surprised and displeased at her tone, interfered. 

“Yes, my dear, I am sure you would like a cup of tea,” said he. 
“ Take her to the tent, Fred, and look after her.” 

Then, as the young man, who looked delighted at her discomfiture, 
turned to shake hands with her step-mother, Mr. Denison whispered 
to his daughter, in as peremptory a tone as he ever used to her — 

“ You mustn’t put on these airs, Olivia. Young Williams is a very 
good fellow, and has obliged me considerably, more than once. I 
insist on your being civil to him.” 

Olivia turned white, and bit her lips. A suspicion of the truth, 
that her father was under monetary obligations to this wretched lit- 
tle stripling, flashed into his mind. She waited verv quietly, but 
with a certain erect carriage of the head which promised ill for the 
treatment Fred would receive at her hands. He, however, was not 
the man to be scrupulous about the way in which he attained his 
ends. He trotted beside her to the tent in a state of great elation. 

“Awfully slow these bun scuffles, ain’t they?” he said in his most 
insinuating tones. “ I shouldn’t have come at all if it hadn’t been 
for the chance of meeting— some one I wanted to see.” 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


163 


This was accompanied a most significant look ; but unfortu- 
nately Olivia, who was considerably taller than he, was looking over 
his head at some fresh arrivals. 

“Indeed,” she said, absently. 

Fred reddened ; that is to say, a faint tint, like the color in his tie, 
appeared for a moment in his cheeks, and then left them as yellow 
as before. He tried a^ain. She should look at him ; it didn’t mat- 
ter how, bufshe should look. 

“Those country girls look at me as if they’d never seen anything 
like this get-up before. It’s the proper thing down in the "south, 
isn’t it?” 

“I should think so— on Margate ‘ excursionists,’ ” answered Olivia, 
briefly. 

Fred was quite unmoved. 

“ Now what would your father say if he heard you?” he asked, 

f ood humoredly. “You know he told you to be" civil. Ho, yes, 
’ve sharp ears enough— always catch up anything I want to hear.” 
Olivia said nothing to this, a"nd presently he went on, in a persuasive 
tone— 

“ You know it’s worse than wasting your time to be rude to me, 
because I’m not a bad chap to people 1 like, and to people I don’t like 
I can do awfully nasty turns.” 

“ Oh, I don’t doubt your power of making yourself unpleasant,” 
said Olivia, quietly. 

Still Fred Williams only chuckled. They had by this time reached 
the tent, and he gave her a chair with a flourish of satisfaction. 

“There, now you must look up to me to fire off your spiteful little 
shots, instead of down at me as if I were a worm or a beetle. It’s 
not many men of my size, mind you, that would walk with a girl as 
tall as you? it puts a fellow at a disadvantage. And as your six- 
footers are not too plentiful in these parts, it would be wiser of you 
to make your peace with the little ones.” 

“I assure you,” said Olivia, looking up at him gravely, “ that I 
could get on very well without either six-footers or four-feet-sixers.” 

“ That’s a nasty cut. There’s not many fellows would stand that,” 
said the irrepressible one. “But, there, I tell you there’s nothing I 
wouldn’t put up with from you. I suppose you won’t insult my 
guv’nor if I introduce him to you,” he continued, glancing towards 
a corner of the tent where the elder Mr. Williams was engaged in 
animated talk with Ned Mitchell. 

“Certainly not answered Olivia, “I am told by every one that 
you could scarcely be told for father and son.” 

This was true. Mr. Williams, though he was not free from the 
faults of the parvenu, was ostentatious in his charities and respectful 
towards wealth, had a handsome person and a dignified carriage, 
and was in every way his son’s superior. He had been most anxious 
to make Ned Mitchell’s acquaintance, feeling that in this man, who 
had begun with little and by his own exertions had made it much, 
he should meet with a congenial nature. And so it proved. Ned 
having the same feeling towards him, they had become, at their first 
interview, if not friends, at least mutually well-disposed acquain- 
tances. 


164 


ST. cutiibert’s toweb. 


When Fred interrupted their tete- a-tete^ they were deej) in a con- 
versation they found so interesting- that Mr. Williams, in reply to 
his son’s request that he would come and be introduced to a lady, 
waved him away, saying, “Presently, my boy, presently.” 

He came back, laughing at his father’s earnestness. 

“ He and that colonist fellow are so thick already that there’s no 
separatin’ ’em,” he said to Olivia. “Thev’re at it, hammer and 
tongs, about the old tower down at St. Cuthbert’s, and as the vicar 
has just come and shoved his little oar in, I expect they’ll be at it 
till breakfast time.” 

“ The tower of St. Cuthbert’s !” exclaimed Olivia, rising hastily 
from her chair. “What are they saying about that?” 

Fred, who noticed everything, saw how keen was the interest she 
showed. 

“Yes. You know my guv’nor was hot on building a new tower 
to the place, and paying for the repair of it. He likes things brand 
new, does the guvmor, and he likes tablets and paragraphs with 
‘Re-erected by the generosity of F. S. Williams, Esquire, of the 
Towers,’ on ’em. And he was put off it, I don’t exactly know how. 
So Mitchell’s working him up to it again.” 

“ Since your father won’t come to me, you shall take me to him,” 
said Olivia, brightly, though her lips were quivering. 

Fred, still watching her carefully, noticed this also. As they cross- 
ed the floor of the tent, he could see that she was straining her ears 
to catch what she could of the talk of the three men. For Mr. Mere- 
dith Brander had now joined the other two, and was taking the chief 
share of the subject under discussion. This was no longer St. Cuth- 
bert’s Tower, but the recent loss which the colonist had sustained by 
the poisoning of his hounds. 

“ My own impression,” the vicar was saying, in tones of convic- 
tion, “ is that you must have caused their death yourself during 
your sleep.” 

“ How do you make that out, vicar?” asked Ned, very quietly. 
Since that outburst of fury the evening before he had been very 
subdued— almost amiable. 

“ Why, I cannot conceive anv motive strong enough to induce 
anybody else to make away with them. If they were really danger- 
ous to some one’s secret, poisoning them was too suspicious an act. 
Besides, my brother— I mean the churchyard of St. Cuthbert’s has 
just been laid out as a garden, and the "wall has been fringed with 
broken glass to keep out all unauthorized intruders. Now what 
could a man kill your dogs for?” 

“ I have mv own ideas as to the reason,” said Ned. Then, after a 
short pause, he added, “ You see, the poisoning of the hounds led 
to a delay. Now a hunted criminal lives by delays.” 

“ Hunted criminal !” Poor Olivia echoed these terrible words be- 
low her breath. The very sound of them blanched her cheeks and 
seemed to check the beating of her heart. 

It was again Ned who spoke — 

“ Tell me, vicar, what you mean by suggesting that I poisoned 
my hounds in my sleep. ” 

“ Don’t you know,” said Mr. Brander, “how an active man forced 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


165 


into inaction will brood over an idea until it is never out of ihs 
brain ? I imag'ine that you, moved as you certainly were by fears 
for the safety of your" dog’s while you were ill, g’ot these fears so 
strongly in your mind that at last you got up one night, and with 
your own hands did what it was always in your mind that some one 
else would do — laid about the poison which "the dogs took as soon as 
they by some*means got loose.” 

“ Dear me ! Very ingenious theory— very ingenious !” said Mr. 
Williams. 

“I don’t suppose,” went on the vicar, modestly, “that the idea 
would have come into my head if it had not been that in my own 
family there have been marvellous instancei^of somnambulism. An 
ancestor of mine, a very energetic man who loved the sound of his 
own voice, had been orciered a rest from preaching by his doctor. 
Well, I assure you that after obeying this injunction three months, 
he got up one night, got the church keys, let himself in, and was dis- 
covered there by his wife in the pulpit, preaching a sermon in his 
dressing gown and slippers ! And there have been numberless other 
instances in our family— some within this century.” 

“Dear me, that is singular indeed,” said Mr. Williams. 

“A very high-spirited family yours, vicar,” said Ned, who had not 
moved a muscle duri^ this recital, “ and the spirit is sure to peep 
out sooner or later, l^u, I think, though you’ll excuse my saying 
so, are about the only one of the bunch that hasn’t let it peep out 
rather discreditably.*” 

“ Perhaps my sins are all to come,” said the vicar with a jolly 
laugh. 

And, catching sight of the two young people who were waiting 
for a hearing, Mr. Brander himself introduced Olivia Denison to old 
Mr. Williams, and left the group to join his other guests. 


CHAPTER XXn. 

The haymaking in the glebe field of Rishton Vicarage was an 
annual affair, an institution of Meredith Brander’s own, dating from 
the young days of his reign. It had been at its origin a thoroughly 
Radical institution, a freak of the then very youthful vicar, who had 
not yet quite dropped all the wild ideas for the reconstruction of 
society of his university days. Rich and poor, gentle and simple, 
an invitation had been‘extended to all ; the glebe field was to be the 
scene of such an harmonious commingling of class and class as had 
not been dreamed of since the dim days of Feudalism. For a year 
or two both the villagers and the richer class were represented ; the 
former sparsely, it is true. But there was no commingling. Then 
the villagers, not quite understanding the vicar’s idea, began to have 
a suspicion that, besides being somewhat bored and bewildered by 
the entertainment and the necessity for putting on “company 
manners,” they were being laughed at ; and thenceforth they stayed 
away altogether. So that the annual haymaking had now become 
what Mr. Brander called “a mere commonplace omnium gatherum^'' 


166 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


where the lowest class represented was tliat of well-to-do farmers, 
whose wives and daughters having replaced the straightforward rus- 
ticity of half a century ago for a veneer of fashion and refinement, 
were tiresome guests, captious, self-assertive, and intolerable. 

Among the most prominent members of this last class were the 
two daughters of John Oldshaw. Despising their shy, good-hearted 
brother Mat as much as they did their coarse-mannered father, they 
prattled of Gilbert and SulliVan’s last opera, of the newest shape of 
sunshade, of the most recently published novel, uneasily anxious to 
show that they were abreast of the times. They hated Olivia Den- 
ison for hor easy superiority ; and while indignant with their broth- 
er for admiring her, they were still more indignant at the knowledge 
that he was too much her inferior for her to treat him with anything 
but kindness. 

Olivia, who was always scrupulously courteous to these young 
ladies, shook hands with" them as she left the tent with her perkstent 
admirer, Fred Williams, who, with little attempt at concealment, 
tried to draw her away from the farmer’s daughters. 

“How charming Mrs. Brander is looking to-day !” said the elder, 
in the loud, unpleasant voice which shivered in a moment all her 
pretensions to refinement. “She reminds me more of Lady Gris- 
dale eve^ time I see her.” 

Lady Grisdale was a fashionable beauty, whose photograph, to- 
gether with those of the Guernsey Rose and Mrs. Carnaby East, 
adorned Miss Oldshaw’s drawing-room mantelpiece in a plush 
frame. 

“Yes,” assented Olivia, she is like the portraits of Lady Grisdale. 
How is your brother ? Isn’t he coming here to-day ?” 

The Misses Oldshaw disliked any allusion to their brother, who, 
they considered, did them little credit. And to hear him mentioned 
by Olivia Denison was especially galling. It seemed to them to sig- 
nify, what indeed was the truth, that she ranked Mat, with Ins 
rough speech and shy, awkward ways, above themselves, with all 
their pretensions. Miss Oldshaw tnerefore answered with a shrill 
tartness which surprised Olivia, who had certainly no wish to offend 
her— 

“ Oh, he’s not coming here. His tastes don’t lie in the direction 
of either nice ^ople or nice amusements. ” 

“Indeed! I should have thought they would when he’s so nice 
himself.” 

“Oh, of course niceness is a matter of taste,” said Miss Oldshaw 
with an affected laugh. “ Perhaps you would consider the person 
he has gone to see nice.” 

“ Very likely,” said Olivia, coolly. 

“ Dear me,” interrupted the second sister, with a perceptible sneer ; 
“ you forget that Mr. Vernon Brander may be a friend of Miss Den- 
ison’s.” 

“ If it is Mr. Vernon Brander whom Mat has gone to see, I don’t 
think he has chosen his pleasure badly. At least he is in pleasanter 
society, than we all have the fortune to meet here. ” 

And Olivia, who had remained very quiet during this disagreeable 
colloquy, turned away, while her companion burst into a loud fit of 


ST. CUTHBERT’S TOWER. 


167 


laughter, and glancing over his shoulder at the sisters, remarked in 
a voice which they were intended to hear — 

“ Why does Mrs. Brander invite those people? Everybody knows 
they were both sweet on Parson Longface until they found it 
was no go.” 

Olivia mada no answer to this graceful remark. She was standing 
close to the hedge which bounded the field on the side nearest to the 
village. The trees grew thickly outside, and even at five o’clock the 
sun was strong enough to make the shelter of the overhanging 
branches welcome. Tne devoted Fred had put into her hands a very 
fanciful little hay rake ; but instead of amusing herself by turning 
over the sweet-scented hay which strewed the field all round her, 
she only drew the rake listlessly along the ground with an air of be- 
ing a thousand miles away. 

“I’m afraid I bore you,” said Fred at last, in an offended tone, 
finding that all his conversational efforts failed to wake the least 
sparkle of interest in her eyes ; “ I should have thought this sort of 
thing would have been just what you would like : wants such a lot 
of energy, and all that sort of thing, you know.” 

Yes,” answered Olivia, dreamingly ; “ it wants too much energy 
to be wasted on play, when one has serious things to think about. ” 

“Serious things !” echoed Fred, pricking up his ears, and rushing 
at this opening. “Yes, I’ve got a lot of serious things to think 
about too— one thing jolly serious. I say,” he went on, getting 
rather nervous, “ I’m glad you take things seriously ; I like a gin 
who can be serious.” 

“ Do you ?” asked she rather absently. “I should have thought 
you liked a girl who could be lively.” 

“ Well, yes ; I like ’em both. I mean, I like one who can be both 
—or, or — ’’’ 

“ Both who can be one, perhaps,” suggested Olivia, laughing. 

She had had to stave off proposals before from men whom she was 
anxious to save from unnecessary pain. But with this grotesque 
little caricature of an admirer, she felt no sentiment deeper than a 
hope that he would not be silly. Insignificant as he seemed to her, 
however, she made a great mistake in despising him, and in forget- 
ting that a small, mean nature is very much more dangerous than a 
nobler one. So that while she was innocently trying to avoid the 
annoyance of his love-making with light words and laughter, he 
was growing every moment more doggedly bent on doing her the 
honor of making known his admiration. Although the possibility 
of a refusal had not occurred to him, he felt nervous, as he would 
have felt with no other woman. 

“ I say, now, be serious a moment, can’t you? Or I shall think I 
paid you too great a compliment just now.” 

“ As I am not used to compliments, perhaps it got into my head.” 

“ Oh, of course I know you have had plenty of fools dangling about 
you and saying a lot of things they dotf t mean—” 

“So that one more or less hardly counts,” suggested Olivia, 

^^^e^w^d not be angry even then. He thought if he affected to 
drop the subject he should soon bring her to reason ; so he said, “Oh, 


168 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


well, of course, if that’s your way of looking at it, there’s no more to 
be said.” 

But she took him at his word, and, with just a nod of assent to his 
last remark, ran to the hedge, with a cry, “ There’s Mat !” as she 
caught sight of Farmer Oldshaw’s son standing under the trees. 

Fred Williams looked after her with an ugly expression on his 
littl^ellow face. 

“Fancy my not being common enough for her, by Jove !” was his 
modest reflection as he saw her shake hands heartily with the young 
man. 

Olivia with a woman’s quick perception, had known at once that 
Mat had something of importance to tell her. 

“ "What is it. Mat?” she asked, anxiously, as they shook hands. 

“ Mester Vernon : he’s very bad wi’ t’ fever,” said he, in a low 
voice. “Ah allers weaite at corner o’ t’ long meadow o’ Thursdays, 
an’ walk wi’ him as far as Ixiwer Copse, where he goes to ’s meeting. 
An’ to-deay he didn’t cobm, so Ah knew summat wur wrong, an’ 
Ah went to ’s home, an’ Ah saw him. An’ Ah thowt Ah’d let ye 
knaw, Miss Olivia, so Ah coom here to tell ye.” 

Olivia had very little shyness with Mat ; he knew her secret, and 
he too loved Vernon Brander most loyally. She thanked him in 
very few words, but with a look of gratitude in her eyes which 
stirred in the young man feelings of pain and pleasure she never 
guessed at. 

“I shall manage to get away in a few minutes,” she said. 

“ If you’re goin’ to see Mester Vernon, you’ll let me see ye seafe 
across t’ fields?” 

“ Yes ; I shall be very glad if Vou will.” 

With the rapidity of a butterfly, in order to avoid the unlucky 
Fred Williams, Olivia sped across the scattered hay to the tent where 
she had left Ned Mitchell and Mr. Williams the elder. They were 
conversing as earnestly as ever, and certain words which fell upon 
the girl’s ears as she stood waiting for a chance of catching Ned’s 
attention showed her that they were still on the old subject. 

“ You will scarcely believe me, Mr. Mitchell, when I assure you 
that nothing but the dissuasions of Mr. Meredith Brander and his 
brother have prevented my doing it long before. However, I have 
made up my mind not to put up with this sort of thing any longer. 
I have no doubt their motives were good— perfectly good. But they 
are certainly mistaken in letting a private fad for antiquities inter' 
fere with the comfort of the parishioners.” 

“And they won’t find on every bush a parishioner rich enough 
and generous enough to rebuild a church at his own expense,” added 
Ned. 

“ Oh, well, perhaps not,” allowed Mr. Williams, modestly. “Any- 
how, I’ll get Ixird Stannington’s permission at once, and the new 
St. Cuthbert’s tower shall be an object of admiration in the neigh- 
borhood before the winter comes.” 

Ned Mitchell was satisfied ; he had sowed the seed well. Having 
now leisure to look round him, he perceived that Olivia, standing by 
herself, with her ^es fixed earnestly upon him, was waiting for 
speech with him. With her feminine grace, her high spirit and her 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


169 


devotion, she was a girl after his own heart ; what little of amiability 
there was in his character always appeared in his face and manner 
when he addressed her. 

“ Oh, Mr. Mitdhell,” she said, in a low, pleading voice, as he nod- 
ded to Mr. Williams and walked out of the tent with her, “ I want to 
ask you not to be hard.” 

“Too late— too late by fifteen years, Miss Denison,” said he, not 
harshly, however. “But what particular proof of hardness have I 
given you just now ?” 

“You know,” said she, tremulously : “ the new tower— St. Cuth- 
bert’s tower — ” 

Ned Mitchell stopped short, and made her turn face to face with 
him. 

“It seems to me, young lady,” said he, “that you haven’t much 
faith in your lover.” 

“Mr. Vernon Brander is not my lover,” said she, blushing. 

“ Not to the extent of having asked you to name the happy day, 

g jrhaps. But whether you confess it or not, I know that if Vernon 
rander were free to marry, he might have you for the asking.” 

“ Well, yes, he might,” said poor Olivia, raising her head proudly 
one moment, and the next letting it fall in confusion and shame. 
“ And I confess I don’t feel sure whether he has done this dreadful 
thing or not ; and— and that it wouldn’t make any difference if he 
had. And it’s because I don’t feel sure that I’m come to beg vou not 
to have St. Cuthbert’s tower touched. And I’ve just heard tnat he’s 
ill, and I’m very miserable about it. There, there — now I think I’ve 
humiliated myself enough to you.” 

They were' in the open field, with young men and maidens on 
either side making more or less shallow pretences at haymaking. 
Olivia could not indulge the inclination that prompted her to burst 
into a rage of passionate tears. But she was almost blinded by the 
effort to keen them back ; and Ned Mitchell had to guide her'steps 
between the naycocks, which he did gently enough. 

“Look here,” he said, in a tone which could only express feeling 
by jerks ; “I don’t want to hurt you. There’s nobody I wouldn^ 
sooner hurt, I think. You’re a brave girl. I like you. I approve 
of you. Hold your tongue, and I’ll promise you soniething.” 

The last admonition was unnecessary ; she was quiet enough. 

“I give you my word. Now, mind, you’re not to shout out!” She 
shook her "head. “I give you my word no harm shall come to — 
somebody.” 

“Mr. Vernon Brander?” she asked, in a whisper. 

“Yes.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Mitchell, you are good, then, after all!” she said, with 
naive earnestness and gratitude. 

“ Don’t be too sure of that. But I do keep my word. He’s ill, you 
say ? ” 

“Mat Oldshaw has just told me that he is in a fever.” 

“And you are going to see him? What would your father 
say ?” 

“ I can’t help it. I must : I must. He has no friends to visit 
hini ” 


170 


ST. CUTHBERT’S TOWER. 


“ Oh, yes, he has. Mark my words : as soon as she hears of it, his 
sister-in-law will fly to his side.” 

Olivia seemed to shrink into herself with a shiver at these words. 
Her warm-hearted outburst of grateful confidence was over. 

“ What do you mean to imply ?” she asked, coldly. 

“Nothing: nothing but juk what I say. You m^ tell Vernon 
that I am coming this evening to look after him. Here you are. 
You can slip through this gate and be off under the trees and down 
through the village. And I’ll make up a story for your step- 
mother.” 

He opened the gate for her, and let her through. Olivia scarcely 
dared to believe that he would keep his promise of doing no harm to 
Vernon ; still, his kindness to herself was encouraging, and, in spite 
of doubts and fears, pangs of jealousy of Mrs. Meredith, self-reproach 
for acting against her father’s wishes, Olivia felt lighter hearted 
since Ned Mitchell’s promise, and congratulated herself, as she ap- 
proached St. Cuthbert’s Vicarage, and bade good-bye to faithful Mat, 
that she was the bearer of good news. 

Her heart beat fast as she went up the stone pathway of the bar- 
ren enclosure before the house. In answer to her knock, Mrs. 
Warmington opened the door, and uttered a short exclamation, 
whether of , surprise, joy, or astonishment, the visitor could not tell. 

“So that’s the answer to the conundrum !” was her rather bewil- 
dering greeting. 

“Is Mr. Vernon Brander at home?” asked Olivia, with some 
dignity. 

But Mrs. Warmington would have none of it. 

“ Oh, yes, you know he is,” she answered, impatiently. “And,, 
what’s more, you know he’s ill. And he knows you are coming, 
and of course that’s the reason why he wouldn’t go back to bed, when 
he knows as well as I do that" bed’s the place where he ought 
to be.” 

“If he does expect me, it’s only guesswork,” said Olivia, 
more softly. “Bor I’ve sent him no message, and he has sent 
me none.” 

“Oh, the air carries messages between some people,” said Mrs. 
Warmington, impatiently. 

“Who is that?” asked Vernon Brander’s voice from the front 
room. 

“It is I, Mr. Brander,” answered Olivia, in a very meek, small 
voice. 

She opened the door and entered shyly, with a prim little speech 
upon her lips, something about “so many inq^uiries having been 
made for him that she had offered to come and learn how he was.” 
But she only got out a few words and stopped. He was still standing 
by the door, and she had not yet looked at him. When she modestly 
raised her eyes, she read in his face such feelings as put her pretty 
platitudes to flight. 

“ Oh !” she said, softly, and clasped her hands, while her lips quiv- 
ered and her eyes filled. But she instantly recovered herself and 
became very stately and stiff. 

“ Come and sit down,” said he ; and, closing the door, he took her 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


171 


hands in both his, and led her to a battered armchair, which stood 
beside the worn old sofa from which he had just risen. 

Olivia allowed herself to be led to the chair, on which she sat down 
with some constmint. Mr. Brander took an ordinary cane-seated 
chair at the other side of the table. There was a silence of some mo- 
ments. Then the girl spoke. 

“ I am glad you were not at the hay-making this afternoon, Mr. 
Brander. The sun was so hot, even up to the time I left, that it was 
quite as much as we could do to breathe, without the fatigue of mak- 
ing hay.” 

She aid not look at him while she spoke ; but as he only said “Yes ” 
in a very faint voice, she slowly turned her head and saw that he 
was swaying on the table, ashy white and breathing heavily. All 
her shyness and constraint broke down in a second. She started up, 
and running lightly round the table, put a strong supporting arm 
around him. 

“Come to the sofa,” she said, gently. “You are not well enough 
to sit up.” 

For answer he laid his head against her shoulder, and looked rap- 
turously into her beautiful face. 

“I don’t feel ill,” was all he dared to say. 

Olivia blushed, but did not withdraw her arm. 

“That is all nonsense,” she said, imperiously. “You are ill, and 
I believe you want a doctor, and I mean to fetch one. I’m turning 
nurse to the parish,” she went on merrily ; “ you know it was I who 
got the doctor for Mr. Mitchell.” 

Vernon’s face clouded. 

“ Yes ; I know,” said he. 

“ Oh, Mr. Brander,” continued Olivia, beginning to stammer and 
hesitate. “I— I have something to tell you about Mr. Mitchell; 
something he said— to me, this afternoon.” 

“ Well, what was it?” 

“They were talking— he and old Mr. Williams— this afternoon, 
about tHe restoration of— of— ” 

“ Of St. Cuthbert’s tower?” 

“ Yes. Mr. Mitchell was persuading him to build a new tower 
» 

“Persuading him! Clever old fox! There’s a proverb about 
cheating the devil, but I think it would be stronger to talk of cheat- 
ing Ned Mitchell.” 

Olivia' was surprised by the coolness with which he said this. 
However, she hastened to add — 

“ But I don’t think it will be rebuilt after all.” 

It seemed to her that something very like a shade of disappointment 
crossed his face at these words. 

“ How is that ?” was all he said. 

“I spoke to Mr. Mitchell afterwards, and he promised me never to 
do anything to harm you,” said Olivia, in a gentle, earnest voice, 
quite ignoring, in the excitement of this announcement, how much 
of her own feelings she was betraying. 

“Then you think,” said he, verv quietly, “ that the building of a 
new tower at St. Cuthbert’s would do me harm ?” 


172 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ I— I thought,” said Olivia, much confused, “from what I had 
heard, that you did not wish it to be rebuilt.” 

“ And I suppose you must have some idea why ?” 

“ No,” answered Olivia, quickly. 

“Quite sure?” 

“ Of course I have heard what people say.” 

“If I were a wholly innocent man, how could any discoveries 
which might be made hurt me?” 

“ I don’t know ; I should have thought perhaps they might.” 

“ I can see that your mind is not free from doubts?” 

No answer. He was leaning against her, and speaking with diffi- 
culty. 

“ And yet you love me all the same ?” 

The question burst from his lips in a low, husky, passionate whis- 
per, while his eyes sought hers, and his hand trembled at the contact 
with her fingers. For answer she fiung her right arm round his 
neck, and pressed her lips tenderly, fervently on his pale forehead. 
He shiver^ in her arms as if seized by a strong convulsion of feel- 
ing ; then, by; a feverish effort tearing himself from her embrace, 
he leaned against the mantelpiece and buried his face in his hands, 
murmuring, in a hoarse and broken voice — 

“ God bless vou ! And God forgive me !” 

Oliva’s 'whole heart went out to him in the deep distress from 
which he was evidently suffering. She rose, and coming to within 
a few paces of where he stood, said, most wiriningdy — 

“ Come and lie down on the sofa. I will read to you, sing to you, 
do anything you would like done ; but you must not stand ; you are 
not well enough.” 

He held out his hand to her with a smile that made his haggard 
face for moment handsome. 

“I will do whatever you wish,” he said, “if you will in return do 
something I am going to command.” 

“What is that ?” she asked with a smile. 

“ Go back home at once. You are here against your father’s 
wishes, and I am bound in honor to forbid your presence here.” 

He had already withdrawn his hand from hers ; he dared not trust 
it to remain there. There was a yearning in his eyes which stirred 
all the pity, all the tenderness, in her nature for this outcast from 
love and home and happiness. She tried to take his pathetic com- 
mand with a laugh, as he had tried to give it. But she failed, as he 
had done. And so they stood, with only a yard of faded and worn 
old carpet between them, reading in each other’s eyes the longing, 
she to comfort and he to caress, while the sunset faded slowly out- 
side, and the old clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and faint sounds of 
the clattering of cups and spoons came from the kitchen. 

“ There is some one at the gate,” said he at last. And he crossed 
to the window and looked out : “ Ned Mitch ill !” 

Olivia started. She was glad Ned had come while she was there, 
being anxious to note how he met Vernon. 

“ Come straight in,” called out Vernon from the window. 

And Ned came in, with his ponderous walk and keen glance. He 
nodded to Olivia, and walking straight up to Vernon, examined him 
attentively. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


173 


“ So you’re on the sick list, I hear,” he said, not unkindly. “By 
the look of you I should say you’ll be on the burial list soon if you 
don’t take care of yourself . ” 

Olivia uttered a low cry of horror. 

“You want a wife to look after you. Some men can get on best 
without a woman ; I’m one : that’s why I’m married. Some can’t 

f et on without one ; you’re one of that sort : that’s why you’re a 
achelor. One of the dodges of Providence to keep us from growing 
too fond of this precious world, I suppose.” 

“Well, as I cnoose to mortify the hesh by remaining a bachelor, 
it’s unkind of you to throw my misfortune in my face, isn’t it ?” said 
Vernon, not succeeding very well in the effort to speak in his usual 
manner. 

“Sit down, man,” said Ned, peremptorily. “You ought to be in 
bed. On the other hand, if you knock off your work, who’s to do it 
for you ?” 

“ Nobody ; there is nobody ; therefore I must not knock off,” said 
Vernon, feverishly. 

“ Oh, yes, you must. Health’s everything,” said Ned, with his 
small, sharp eyes fixed on the floor. “ Now I’ve a proposal to make 
to you. There’s not much of a parson’s work a rough man like me 
can do, but there’s some, taking messages and seeing people and 
things like that. Now it’s precious dull up at my hole of a cottage. 
So I’m coming to stay a day or two with you, and your old woman 
can put me up in the little room that’s next to your bedroom. It’s 
all settled, you understand,” he added, lifting his hand and raising 
his voice peremptorily at the same time. 

“ It’s awfully good of you,” said Vernon, though his tone betrayed 
more curiosity than gratitude. “But, at any rate, if you choose to 
stay here, you shall have the best bedroom we can offer you. The 
little box next to mine is tilled with nothing but lumber.” 

“That’s the room I mean to have, though,” said Ned, stubbornly. 
“I’m of a romantic and melancholy disposition, and I like the view. 
It looks out into the churchyard.” 

The curiosity died out suddenly from Vernon’s face. 

“ And if I am compelled to assure you that it is impossible that 
room should be used 

“Then I shall have to come and encamp in the neighborhood ; 
that’s all.” 

The men looked straight at each other, and Vernon shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ You can comedf you like,” said he, indifferently. 

Olivia, who had listened with much interest to this discussion, now 
came forward to bid Vernon good-bye. Ned, with ostentatious dis- 
creetness, tramped heavily to the window, and looked out. But he 
might have spared himself the trouble ; for before he got there the 
ceremony of farewell was over. Olivia had put her hand in Vernon’s, 
and they had given a brief look each into the face of the other. Ned, 
as he stared into the bare enclosure outside, suddenly felt a light 
touch on his arm. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Mitchell,” said Olivia. “Pon’t forget— your 
promise.” 


174 


BT. cuthbert’s tower. 


“I never forget anything,” said Ned, drily. 

The next minute she was hurrying up the lane, with the eye of 
both men fixed on her retreating figure. 

“That’s a good sort,” said Ned, approvingly. , 

To this Vernon Brander assented very shortly. 

Olivia had forbidden Mat to wait for her, but she was not to go 
home unescorted. At the top of the hill, where the lane joined the 
high road, she found the irrepressible Fred Williams sitting on the 
bank, making passes at a white butterfly with his walking stick. 
Olivia uttered an “Oh !” full of impatience and disgust. Fred 
got up, grinning at her in obtuse admiration. 

“ I knew where you’d gone,” he said, nodding with a knowing air. 

“ So I came to see you home.” 

•“ He was still rather nervous, which was perhaps the reason why he 
failed to perceive the full extent of her annoyance at this second 
meeting. He had, besides, primed himself for a speech, and that 
speech he meant to make. 

“We were interrupted just now in the hayfield,” he began — “ just 
when I was on the point of — ” 

“Oh, never mind now,” broke in Olivia, impatiently, “I have 
something to think about. ” 

“ Well, what I am going to say to you don’t require thinking 
about ; I wan’t you to marrv me. Yes or No.” 

“No !” said Olivia promptly. 

“ Of course I knew you’d say that first go off. But let me reason 
with you a little. You must get married some time. You like 
another fellow better than me — 

“ I do— a great many other fellows !” 

“Well, but one in particular. Now you can’t have him, and you 
tan have me. And if you do have me, you can do a good turn to 
the other fellow.” 

“ What do you mean ?” asked the girl, turning white at the young 
man’s tone. 

“ If you’ll promise to marry me— seriously, mind— I’ll persuade 
my father not to build the new tower to St. Cuthbert’s. Nobody but 
me can stop him. That chap Mitchell is egging him on to it with all 
his might.” 

“ He’s changed his mind,” said Olivia, quietly. 

“Oh, has he? Since when, I should like to know? He met me 
sitting here five minutes ago, on his way down* to St. Cuthbert’s, 
where you’ve just come from ” (with another knowing nod), “ and he -■ 
gave me this note for mv father. I opened it. Won’t you read it ? 
All right ; but you shall hear what it says.” 

Fred was holding a part of the old envelope, which had been scrib- 
bled on in pencil and folded. He read it aloud : — 

“ Dear Mr. Williams— Hurry on the re-building of St. Cuthbert’s 
Tower as fast as you can. I hear there is a proposal afloat to be be- 
forehand with you, and to deprive you of all the credit of the thing 
by getting it up by subscription. — Yours, E. Mitchell.” 

Poor Olivia was aghast at Ned’s breach of faith, but she affecte4 
unconcern. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


175 


“I don’t see how the rebuilding* of St. Cuthbert’s tower can affect 
either me or Mr. Vernon Brander.” 

“ Nor do I. But I can see it does. Anyhow, I’ll give you till to- 
morrow morning to consider the thing, and I’ll meet you in the 
poultry run wfa^n you feed the chickens— if I can get up early 
enough. And as I see you want to think over it by yourself. I’ll take 
mysdf off for the present. Good evening. Miss I)enison.” 

He sauntered away in the opposite direction to Rishton, his mis- 
chievous good humor perfectly undisturbed ; while Olivia, more 
concerned for Mr. Vernon Brander than ever, hurried home, and 
sneaked up to her room to consider the new position of aHairs, 
and to write a pleading note to Ned Mitchell. 


CHAPTER XXHI. 

Olivia Denison’s thoughts on the morninp* after the haymaking, were 
entirely occupied with Vernon Brander, his illness, the possilnlity of 
his innocence, and the chances of his escape if guilty ; so that when, 
on entering the poultry yard with her basket on her arm, she found 
Fred Williams, amusing himself by setting two cocks to fight each 
other, she uttered a cry of unmistakable annoyance and astonish- 
ment. 

“You look as if you hadn’t expected to see me, and as if, by Jove, 
you hadn’t wanted'to !” said he, frankly. As she made no answer, 
buiJbnly raised her eyebrows he went on — “Don’t you remember I 
said I should be here this morning?” 

“I had forgotten it, or only remembered it as a kind of night- 
mare.” 

“Do you mean me to take your rudeness seriously?” asked Fred, 
after a pause in which he had as last struggled with the amazing 
fact that he had met a girl to whom his admiration, and all the 
glorious possibilities it conveyed, meant absolutely nothing. 

“ As seriously as I have always taken yours.” 

Fred was silent again for some moments, during which Olivia 
went on throwing handfuls of grain to the chickens, and calling 
softly “ Coop-coop-coop-coop !” in a most persuasive and unconcerned 
manner. 

“ And you really mean that this is your last answer? I can tell 
you, it’s your last chance with me ?” 

Olivia turned, making the most of her majestic height, and looked 
down on him with the loftiest disdain. 

“ I assure you that if it were my ‘last chance,’ as you call it, not 
only with you, but with anybody, I should say just the same.” 

I'red Williams leaned against the wall of the yard, turned out the 
heterogeneous contents of one of his pockets, and began turning them 
over with shaking fingers to hide his mortification. 

Still Olivia went on with her occupation, without paying the 
slio-htest attention to him. Suddenly the rejected suitor shovelled all 
the things he had taken out back into his pockets, and with a monkey- 
Uke spring placed himself right in front of her. 


176 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ I wish there was somebody about to tell you what a jolly fool 
you’re making of yourself,” he said, looking up at her rather vici- 
ously. 

“You may go and fetch somebody to do so if you like,” said she, 
serenely. 

“ And leave you in peace for a little while, I suppose you mean ?” 

“ Perhaps some such thought may have crossed my mind.” 

Mr. Fred Williams had not a high opinioii^ of himself, but experi- 
ence had taught him that his “expectations’^ gave him an adventi- 
tious value ; to find neither his modesty nor his money of any avail 
was a discovery which destroyed for once his habitual good humor, 
and showed a side of his character which he should by all means 
have kept concealed from a lady he wished to charm. 

“ Very well,” he snarled, while an ugly blush spread over his face, 
and his lingers twitched with anger; “very well. You may think 
it verv smart to snub me, and high-spirited and all that. I’ve stood 
a good deal of it— a good deal more man I’d have stood from any- 
body else— because you’re handsome. I know I’m not handsome, or 
refined either ; but I don’t pretend to be.^ And I’m a lot handsomer 
than the hatchet-faced parson, anyhow. And as for refinement, you 
can get a lot more for twenty -five thousand a year than for a couple 
of hundred, which is quite a decent screw for one of your preaching 
fellows. But now I’ve done with you, I tell you, "I’ve done with 
you.” 

“Isn’t that rather a singular expression, considering that I’ve never 
, given you the slightest encouragement ?” asked Olivia, coldly. . 

“ Encouragement ! I don’t expect encouragement ; but I expwt 
a girl like you to know a good thing when she sees it.” 

“ I am afraid we differ as to what constitutes a good thing.” 

“ Very likely ; but we shan’t ‘differ as to what constitutes’ a bad 
thing for Vernon Brander ; and if you don’t see all those twopenny 
geraniums pulled up out of St. Cuthbert’s churchyard, and every 
stone grubbed up, and every brick of that old tower pulled down, 
before another week’s up, my name’s not Fred Williams. There, 
Miss Denison ; now, what do you say to that?” 

“ I sav that you have fully justified your low opinion of yourself.” 

“ And I’ll justify my low opinion of Vernon Brander. If he’s got 
any secrets buried in those old stones, we’ll have them dragged out, 
and make you jolly well ashamed of your friend.” 

“Oh, no, you won’t do that,” said Olivia, who had turned pale to 
the lips, and grown very majestic and stern ; though you have suc- 
ceeded in making me ashamed of having called you even an acquaint- 
ance.” 

“ Perhaps you have a weakness for — ” 

Before he could finish his sentence, he found himself seized by the 
shoulders, and saw towering over him a beautiful countenance, so 
^low with passionate indignation that it looked like the face of a 
I^ry. 

“if you dare to say that word I’ll shake you like a rat !” hissed out 
Olivia, giving him an earnest of her promise with great good will. 

“Stop! stop! unless you— want— to— kill somebody— to be more 
—like— your— precious— friend,” panted Fred, who was not a cow- 
ard. 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


171 


Olivia let him go with a movement which sent him spinning among 
the chickens. 

“ Well, that’s cool,” panted he, as he picked up his hat and looked 
at it ruefully. ‘ ‘You talk about refinement one minute and the next 
you treat me in this unladylike way !” 

“ Oh, I apologize fo^y vulgar manners,” laughed Olivia, who 
was already rather asfraned oflier outbreak. “I’m only a farmer’s 
daughter, you know.” 

“ Ye^ and you couldWgive yourself more airs if you were a duch- 
ess. Your father isn’t so proud by a long way, I can tell you,” he 
added with meaning. 

Olivia became in an instant very quiet. 

“ What do you mean ?” she asked sternly. 

“ Oh, nothing but that he’s been in the habit of borrowing money 
of me for some time ; only trifling sums, but still they seemed to 
come in handy, judging by the way he thanked me.” 

He was disappointed to see that Olivia took this information with- 
out any of the tragic airs he had expected. 

“ 1 daresay they did,” said she. “We are not too well off, as 
everybody knows.” 

The simplicity with which she uttered these words made the young 
man feel at last rather ashamed of himself. 

“Of course, I know he’ll pay me back,” he said hastily. 

Olivia opened great proud eyes, full of astonishment and dis- 
dain, and said, superbly, “ Of course he will.” 

“ And you don’t feel annoyed at the obligation, eh?” asked Fred, 
rather bewildered. 

“I don’t see any obligation,” said she quietly. 

“ Oh, don’t you? Well, most people would consider it one.” 

“How mucn does he owe you?” 

“ Oh, only a matter of forty or fifty pounds.” 

He thought the amount would astonish and distress her ; but as, 
apparentlv, it failed to do either, he hastened to add — 

“ Of course, that’s a mere nothing ; but he let me know, a day or 
two ago, that he should want a much larger loan, and of course, I 
informed him he could have it for the asking.” 

She did wince at that ; but the manner in which she resented his 
impertinence was scarcely to his taste. 

“ And you think the obligation is on our side ?” she said, sweetly, 
but with a tremor of subdued an^er in her voice.' “ What have you 
done except to lend my father a lew pounds, which you would never 
have missed, even if you had thrown them into a well instead of lent 
them to an honorable man ! While he, by accepting the loan, has 
given you a chance of putting on patronizing airs towards a man in 
every respect your superior.” 

“All right— all rignt! Go on! Vernon Brander shall pay for 
this !” snarled Fred, at last rendered thoroughly savage by her con- 
teDQpt. ^ . 

“ Vernon Brander will never be the worse for having you for an 
enemy. I should be sorry for him if you were his friend,” she said, 
defiantlv. 

“ Oh," all right, I’m glad to hear it,” said Fred, glad at last to beat 


178 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


a retreat, and delivering his parting* words at the gate of the i)oiiltry 
yard, with one foot in the new-laid egg basket. “Then if anything 
unpleasant happens to your father or your parson through me, you’ll 
be able to make light of it !” 

Olivia felt rather frightened when she saw how discolored and dis- 
torted with rage his little weasel’s face had become. But she bore a 
brave front, and only said, for all reply to his threats — 

“ Won’t you find it more convenient to stand on the ground, Mr. 
Williams ? To walk about among eggs without accident requires a 
great deal of skill and experience.” 

But when, with an impatient exclamation, he left the poultrv 
vard, Olivia’s heart gave wav, and she began to reproach herself 
bitterly for not having kept a bridle upon her tongue. On the other 
hand, she was glad that her words had provoked the mean little fel- 
low to confess his loans to her father ; for she thought she had in- 
fluence enough with the latter to prevent any more such transac- 
tions, and as for the money already owing, means must somehow be 
found to repay it. 

It was late in the afternoon before she was able to start on the way 
to St. Cuthbert’s. She felt, as usual, i^ome self-reproach at the 
thought that she was acting contrary to her father’s wishes ; but, as 
usual, she was too self-willed to give up her own in deference to his. 
The sun was still glowing on the fields, and pouring its hot rays on 
the roads, which were parched and cracked for want of rain. The cart- 
tracks made faint lines in a thick layer of white dust, which the 
lightest breeze from the hills blew up in cloitds, coating the leaves on 
the hedges and swirling into heaps hy the well-worn foot path. The 
wood that bordered the road for some distance between Eishton and 
Matherham was as silent as if the birds had all left it ; oak and beech 
and dusty pine looked dry and brown in the glare. It was a long, 
hot, weary walk ; but at last she came near the lonely Vicarage, and 
slipping down the final few yards of the steep lane, in a cloud of dust 
which was raised by her own feet at each step, Olivia heard the faint 
sound of voices coming from the house, and stopped short, fancying 
she could detect Vernon’s voice, and wondering who was with nim. 
But the sounds ceased, and she went slowly on, thinking she had 
perhaps been mistaken. She entered the garden gate, and walked 
up the stone pathway, still without hearing anything more, until, 
suddenly, just as she was within a few paces of the door, she heard 
a woman’s voice, low, but clear and strong, utter these words— 

“Eemember, you swore it. Ten years ago j^ou swore it to me, 
and it is still as binding on you as it was then.” 

“Why should I forget it?"” 

Olivia knew that it was Mrs. Brander’s voice that answered, in a 
tone full of contempt and dislike — 

“ Why, this Denison girl, this ” 

Neither she nor Vernon had paid any heed to the footsteps on the 
stone flags. 

Now Olivia hastened to ring the bell sharply, and there was silence 
immediately. 

“How is Mr. Brander to-day?” asked she of Mrs. Warmington 
when the housekeeper opened the dooj:. 


8T. cuthbert’s tower. 


ITS 


“He’s not much better, and not likely to be while that uncivilized 
creature from the Antipodes continues to make his abode here, and 
worry my master morning, noon, and night,” said the housekeeper, 
tartly. 

“ Mr. Mitchell? Where is he now ?” asked Olivia, eagerly. 

“He’s out in the churchyard there, poking about among the 
gravestones. I’ve been watching him from the window of the little 
room he sleeps in. I don’t know how he got hold of the key. I have 
a duplicate, for cleaning the church. I don’t know myself where my 
master keeps his.” 

“ I think ril go and speak to Mr. Mitchell, and come back when 
Mr. Brander is disengaged.” 

“ Disengaged ! He’s disengaged now, as far as I know ” 

“ I think I heard Mrs. Brander’s voice as I came up the path.” 

The housekeeper’s lips tightened, and she drew herself up in evi- 
dent disapproval. 

“ Indeed ! I was not aware she was here.” 

“ Well, I’ll be back in about a quarter of an hour, as I should like 
to see Brander,” said Olivia, hastily. 

Mrs. Warmington raised her eyebrows. She was longing to tell 
Miss Denison that she thought, under the circumstances, it would be 
more modest to stay away ; but she did not dare. So Olivia tripped 
down the stone path, and was in the churchyard before the house- 
keeper had had time to make up her mind how much of her sus- 
picions it would be proper to communicate to a young girl. 

It was some minutes before Olivia succeeded in finding Ned 
Mitchell. The sun was setting by this time, and there were dark 
shadows among the ruined portions of the church. It seemed to her 
as she walkea between the newly laid out flower beds with their 
bright array of geranium, calceolaria, and verbena, that this inno- 
vation was out of place, and only showed up, in a more striking 
manner, the havoc time and tempest had made among the old stones, 
just as the mowing of the grass upon them had accentuated the ir- 
regular mounds and hillocks which filled the ruined south aisle. 
Olivia stepped in and out and over the mounds, calling softly, “Mr. 
Mitchell !” At last, in the corner where the old crypt was, she heard 
a sound coming, as it were, from the ground under her feet. She 
stopped and listened, holding her breath. The sounds continued, a 
soft, muffled “thud, thud,” as of some heavy instrument brought 
ao-ain and again down on the earth. She advanced, step by step, al- 
w°ays listening, fancying that she felt the ground tremble under her 
feet at the force of the blows. At last she came close to the place 
where the rugged steps leading down into the crypt had been block- 
ed up years before. With her senses keenly on the alert, Olivia 
noticed that some of the stones and earth which blocked the entrance 
had been recently moved ; and prying more closely, she found, be- 
hind a bramble and a tuft of rank grass, a small hole, low down in 
the ground, which looked scarcely large enough for the passage of a 
man’s body. However, this seemed to be the only outlet from the 
vault, so Olivia sat down on a broken gravestone, and waited. 

It seemed to Olivia to be growing Quite cold and dark before a 
scraping and rumbling noise, as of falling stones and earth, drew 


180 


ST. cuthbert’s towbr. 


her attention to the concealed hole in the ground. She got up, and 
the noise almost ceased. 

“It is I, Mr. Mitchell,” she said, without being able to see him ; 
“ I’ve been waiting for you.” 

For answer, Mr. Mitchell’s unmistakable, gruff voice murmured a 
string of sullen imprecations, of which, luckily, nothing was dis- 
tinctly audible. However, he put his head out of the hole, and then 
proceeded to extricate the whole of his person with such exceeding 
neatness and cleverness that the hole was scarcely enlarged, and the 
bramble and grass remained intact. He presented a strange appear- 
ance. however, for he was in his shirt sleeves ; a colored silk nand- 
kercnief was bound round his head down to his eyes ; in his right 
hand he held a common kitchen poker ; while he was so covered 
with mould and dust from head to foot that but for his peculiarly 
heavy movements and rough voice he would have been unrecog- 
nizable. 

“Well, what are you doing here?” he asked, very ill-humoredly, 
as he shook himself free from some of the dust he had collected in his 
subterranean ex^oration. “ I thought I heard somebody messing 
about up here. How did you get in ?” 

“In the same way that you did, except that I asked for a key in- 
stead of taking one without asking.” 

She was alarmed to see, when he had wiped some of the dirt off his 
face with his handkerchief, that he looked savagely self-satisfied, 
and quite beyond all reasoning. This was proved clearlv by his next 
words. He nodded his head quietly while sne spoke, and then said — 

“All right. That’s so. Now you had better run home, and be 
careful not to say anything about what you’ve just seen. For I tell 
you, little girl, if you do anything to interfere with me and my 
actions just now, it’ll be the worst day’s work for your little parson up 
yonder that ever* was done. So now you know.” 

Olivia shivered, but she did not answer or contradict him. She 
only said, in a subdued and tremulous voice, “ Good -evening, Mr. 
Mitchell,” and walked away towards the gate, stumbling over the 
chips of stone that lay hidden in the grass, which had been allowed 
to remain long and rank in this the south side of the graveyard. 
She unlocked the gate, passed out, and was relocking it when she 
heard rapid footsteps behind her. 

“jGive me that key!” said Mrs. Brander’s voice, so hoarse, so agitat- 
ed that Olivia looked round before she could be sure that it was really 
the vicar’s calm, cold wife. 

Her large eyes had deep black semicircles under them ; her usually 
firm lips were trembling ; her whole appearance showed a disorder, 
a lack of that dainty preciseness in little things which was so strongly 
characteristic of her. 

“This key!” said Olivia, doubtfully. “Do you know who is in 
there?” 

Mrs. Brander examined the girl from head to foot with passionate 
mistrust, while at the same time she struggled to regain a calmer 
manner. 

“Who is it?” she asked, with an attempt at an indifferent tone. 

“ Mr. Mitchell.” 


8T. OUTHBERT’S tower. 


181 


The vicar’s wife drew back from the g-ate. 

“ You mean this ? You are not playing* me a trick ?” 

“A trick? No. Why should I?” 

, There was a pause, during which Mrs. Brander stood looking at 
her fixedly. As she did not speak, Olivia presently asked — 

“ Do you still wish to go in ?” 

Mrs. Brander hesitated, and then drew back with a shudder. 

“No,” she murmured, scarcely above her breath, “I— I won’t 
go in.” 

As, however, she did not attempt to go away, Olivia bade her 
“good-night,” without getting any answer, and went up the lane 
towards the house. She did not wish to call at the Vicarage now ; 
she wanted first to have time to think over what she had seen and 
heard in the churchyard, as well as her interview with Mrs. Bran- 
der. A new idea, which promised to throw light on the whole mys- 
tery, had come into her mind. But there was the key to be returned 
to Mrs. Warmington. After a moment’s thought, she decided that 
she would leave it at the back door, and thus escape the risk of a 
meeting with Vernon. 

But when she had reached the gate of the yard behind the house, 
she heard Vernon’s voice calling her. 

“Miss Denison, Miss Denison, wait one moment!” 

He had caught sight of her from a side window, and in another 
minute he had come down to her. 

“ Why did you come round this way?” he asked, taking her hand 
in one of his, which was hot, and dry, and feverish. 

“I — I have the key of the churchyard to return to Mrs. War- 
mington.” 

“ And you wanted to escape the chance of seeing me. But I was 
watching for you, you know,” said he, looking at her tenderly. 
Then he suddenly changed his manner. “I thought you would 
come and see me to-day,” he said. “It would be like your usual 
kindness when any one is ill. ” 

“I did call and inquire,” said Olivia, demurely. “But Mrs. 
Brander was with you.” 

Vernon looked at her earnestly. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed; “then I know when you came. I heard 
your footsteps.” Then he looked at her curiously, and asked, 
“Didn’t you hear voices? Didn’t you hear us talking ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Olivia, simply. “And I heard something of 
what you were saying.” 

“ You will tell me what you heard ?” 

Olivia answered, looking down — 

“I heard her remind you to keep an oath that you had made to 
her, and I heard her mention— me!” 

“ And didn’t you want to know what she meant?” 

“I suppose I did.” 

“And will you be content not to know?” 

“ Perhaps I shall. For I think I have guessed something of the 
truth already.” 

Vernon’s eyes glowed with passionate yearning as they met 
hers. 


182 


ST. CUTHBERT’S TOWEB. 


“ Impossible!” said he, below his breath. “And yet — you women 
have such quick perception. If it is true that you know,” he went 
on, in a firmer and sterner voice, “I shall never dare to speak to you 
again.” 

Olivia was trembling with excitement. It was not true that she 
was mistress of the secret, but there a dim intuition in her mind 
which bewildered, sometimes almost maddened, her. ^he did not 
attempt to answer Vernon Brander ; but drawing sharply away from 
him the hand he still held, she abruptly wished him “good-night,” 
and putting the church keys on the wall beside him, ran away up 
the lane as fast as her active feet could carry her. 

When Olivia reached home she Avas greeted by severe silence on 
the part of her step-mother ; while her father, who was usually so 
careful to try to make amends for any unkindness of his wife’s by 
little unobtrusive attentions, carefully avoided her. The girl learn- 
ed the reason of this treatment by remarks which Mrs. Denison, 
apropos of nothing, addressed from time to time to the children, 
warning them not to spoil their clothes, as they were the last they 
would have ; telling them not to disturb their father, as he was 
writing to a gentleman to whom he owed money, asking for time in 
which to repay it ; and finally admonishing them to be courteous to 
Olivia, as sue could have the'place sold up in a moment by insulting 
her father’s creditors ; from Avhich Olivia gathered that Fred Wil- 
liams had already vented his spite on her father, and thereby pre- 
pared a most uncomfortable domestic life for her for some time to 
come. 

She affected to take no notice of this treatment however, and did 
not even go in search of her father, thinking it would be better to let 
the first efects both of Fred’s and of his wife’s ill temper pass off be- 
fore she spoke to him on the subject of the former’s addresses. 

Telling Lucy to bring her supper up to her rooms, Olivia left the 
inharmonious family circle without bidding good-night to anyone, and 
shut herself up in the east wing, where she could always draw the bolt 
of the outer door and be free from molestation. This she did, and 
being inarestless and excited state of mind, passed the next twohoiirs 
in wandering from one room to the other; considering the mystery 
of Nellie Mitchell’s disappearance by the light of all the facts which, 
one by one, had come to her knowledge. She had become so ac- 
customed to these rooms that it was only now and then that she re- 
membered their connection with the murdered girl. To-night, how- 
ever, the recollection startled her at every turn she took in her walks 
up and down. She seemed again to see the bedroom as it had looked on 
her first entrance, nearly six months ago, the rat scurrying down the 
curtains, the carpet lying in damp strings upon the floor, tne mouldy 
books, and the dust lying thickly on chairs and mantelpiece. Everv- 
thing had been been changed since then ; fresh hangings put to the 
bed ; bright cretonne coverings to the old furniture ; a new carpet, 
soft and warm, had replaced the damp rags. But on this particular 
evening her imagination seemed stronger than reality ; as she walk- 
ed from the one room to the other, she pictured to herself always that 
the chamber she was not in at the moment was in the state in which 
she had first seen it. These fancies grew so strong that they drove 


8T. CUTHBERT’S TOWER. 


more serious thoug’hts out of her head ; just when she wanted to be 
able to analyze the ideas which the day’s occurrences had suggested, 
she had lost all power of thinking connectedly ; nothing but 
bewilderingrecollectionsofthe words she had heard and the scenes she 
had witnessed could be got to occupy her excited mind. 

She ran at last to one of her bedroom windows, threw it open, and 
looked out. It was dark now, for it was past nine o’clock, and the 
evening had turned wet. A light, drizzling summer rain was fall- 
ing, and the sky was heavy with clouds. The outlook was so dreary 
that after a few minutes she shut the window, shivering, lit the can- 
dles, and tried to read. But she was in such a nervous state that she 
uttered a little scream when Lucy, bringing her supper, knocked at 
the outer door. Very much disgusted with herself for this display of 
feminine weakness, she would not even allow Lucy, who loved to 
linger about when she had any little service to perform for “ Miss 
Olivia,” to stay for a few minutes’ chat. When the supper had been 
laid on the table in the outer room, and the bright little maid had run 
down stairs, Oljvia did not, as usual, lock the outer door after her. 
She felt so unaccountably lonely and restless that she went into the 
little passage outside her two rooms, and set the outer door open, so 
as to feel that her connection with the rest of the human life in the 
house was not altogether severed. She even walked to the end of the 
corridor and glanced out through the lar^e square window at the 
end, listening all the while for some sound^s of household life down- 
stairs. But in this east wing very little could be heard, and this 
evening everything seemed to Olivia to be unusually quiet. 

The corridor window looked out over fields, showing the farm gar- 
den, with its fruit trees and vegetable beds on the ri^ht, and barns 
and various other outbuildings on the left*. Right und^erneath was a 
neglected patch of land— a corner of the garden not considered worth 
cultivation. Lying among the rank grass were an old ladder and a 
pile of boards, which had been there when the Denisons took the 
farm, and had remained' undisturbed ever since. It suddenly 
occurred to Olivia, for the first time, how alarmingly easy it would 
be for an evilly disposed person to place the ladder against the wall, 
and to effect an entrance through the window, the fastening of which 
she noticed was broken, and had evidently been so a long time. Not 
that such a thin^ was likely to happen,' burglaries being unheard-of 
things in this neighborhood. Still, the idea got such firm hold of her 
excited fancy that, two hours later, when all the household had re- 
tired to rest, she came out of her apartments in her dressing-gown, 
to give a final glance outside, and to make sure that her absura fears 
were as grounaless as she told herself they were. 

Opening the window and putting her head out into the drizzling 
rain, Olivia saw, in the gloom of the misty night, a dark object 
creeping stealthily alon^ outside the garden wall. Just as it reacned 
that part of the w‘all which was immediately opposite the window, a 
watery gleam of moonlight showed through the clouds, and enabled 
her to see that the object was a man. The next moment she saw him 
climb over into the garden beneath. Still keeping close to the wall, 
he crept rapidly along until he was close under the window. Hold- 
ing her breath, Olivia watched him as he stooped and lifted the ladder 


184 


ST. CUTHBERT*S I’OWEIl. 


f rom'the ground. Her blood suddenly seemed to rush to her brain, and 
then to trickle slowly back through her veins as cold as ice. 

For she recogniz^ him. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Like all persons of strong nature, Olivia Denison grew bolder as 
danger came nearer. When she recognized the man in the garden, 
underneath the corridor window, it did not occur to her to call for 
help ; but all her energies were instantly concentrated on learning 
the meaning of this intrusion. She was sure that she had not been 
seen. As noiselessly as she could she shut the window, and retreated 
into the private passage which led to her own apartments. There she 
waited, peeping cautiously out under cover of the black shadows 
of the corridor, into which the faint moonlight could not 
penetrate. 

She heard the grinding sound made by the ladder as it was set 
against the wall, and presently she saw a man’s head appear just 
above the ledge outside. He raised his hand, gave three taps on the 
glass, and disappeared. A minute later he mounted a step higher 
than before, and tapped again. Then, with scarcely an instant’s 
more delay, he pushed up the window slowly and noiselessly, and, as 
soon as it was wide enough, put one leg over the sill and stood in the 
corridor. 

Olivia, brave as she was by nature, was transfixed with alarm. 
What did he want with her? What shocking confession, what hor- 
rible entreaties, had he come to make to her like this, in the middle 
of the night ? If she could have shrieked aloud, if she could have 
run out and alarmed the household, she would have done so now. 
But horror had paralyzed her. The voice she tried to use gave only 
a hoarse, almost inaudible rattle. Her limbs were rigid ; her breatn 
came and went in gasps, like that of a person dying of asthma. She 
could only stand and stare at the advancing tiguie, hoping desper- 
ately that the first words he uttered would brem^ this spell, and re- 
store her to herself. Why did he choose the night time to come and 
make her the victim of his guilty confidences? Were they too 
ghastly to make by day ? That this man was the murderer of Nellie 
Mitchell she could'not now doubt ; the demeanor of his everyday life 
was utterly changed ; there was guilt expressed in every furtive 
movement. All her respect and liking were transformed into loath- 
ing and fear ; she almost crouched against the wall as he 
approached. 

He reached the entrance to the corridor, and paused. If she could 
only keep still enough for him to pass her ! Then she could escape 
into the main building of the house, and have time to think what she 
should do. But he stopped short, and stretched out his hand to knock 
at the door. In the darkness he could not see that it was open. But 
how, Olivia suddenly asked herself, did he know there was a door 
there at all ? Although he moved slowly, too, it was with the man- 
ner of a man who knew his way about the place. Part of the truth 


ST. outhbeet’s toweb. 


185 


flashed suddenly into her mind : he had been there before. By this 
time he had discovered that the door was open. Passing* into the 
corridor, he shut the door, turned the key, and put it in his pocket. 
As he did so he touched Olivia, but did not appear to know it. Now 
thoroughly alarmed, she flew along the passage into her bedroom, 
and was in time to lock the door before she heard his footsteps in the 
outer apartment. There was no lock to the door between the two 
rooms. No one was likely to hear her if she shrieked at one of the 
windows. Before many minutes were over she felt that she should 
have to face him. 

She flew across the bedroom floor to blow out the candle, thinking 
that in the darkness she would have a better chance of escape. As 
she did so she stumbled against a chair, which fell down with a loud 
noise. A moment later there was a knock at the inner door. The 
girl’s heart stood still. She remained motionless, and gave no an- 
swer. The knock was repeated. Still she was silent. A third time 
came the knock, and then a low, hoarse whisper, of one word only, 
startled her, and came as a revelation — 

“Nellie!” 

This was the manner in which, years ago, he had* visited the girl 
whose love had ended by wearying him so fatally. By what means 
he had forgotten the intervening years she did not know, but Olivia 
recognized at once that it was not she of whom he was in search. 
The knowledge restored in a moment all her courage. If, as she 
supposed, fear of discovery had turned his brain, his was a madness 
with which she felt she could cope. After only one moment’s hesita- 
tion, she snatched up one of the candles, and unlocking the door she 
had secured, passed through the passage into the adjoining room. 

“ Mr. Brander 1” said she, in a voice which scarcely trembled. 

She had to repeat her words three or four times before he moved 
from the other door. At last he turned very slowly, and Olivia, 
raising the candle high, looked curiously, and not wholly without 
fear, into his face. 

His eyes were closed ; his breathing was heavy. He was asleep ! 

There flashed through her mind the remembrance of what the 
Vicar of Rishton had said about somnambulism, and the strange in- 
stances of it which had occurred in his family. It was clear to her 
that the excitement occasioned by Ned Mitchell’s obstinate determi- 
nation had prejred upon the mind of the murderer, and led him at 
last to perform in sleep an action which had been an habitual one 
with him eleven years before. 

In spite of the horror of this weird discovery, Olivia’s fears dis- 
appeared at once. She thought she might, without waking him, 
persuade him to go back as he had come. If he did wake, she knew 
ne would not hurt her. She began in a low, intentionally mono- 
tonous voice. 

“I think you had better go back to-night. It is getting very late ; 
it is almost daylight.” 

As before, she had to repeat her words before he grasped the sense 
of them. 

Then he repeated in a whisper, and as if there were something 
toothing in tne sound of her voice — 


186 


ST, cuthbert’s tower. 


“Go back. Yes, go back. ” 

“ I’ll g-ive you a light. Come along,” she went on, coaxingly 

And without a moment’s delay she led the way out into the pas- 
sage. Much to her relief, he followed, at the same slow, heavy pace. 

“ Now,” she said, when they had reached the outer door, “ give me 
the key, please.” 

He felt in his pocket obediently, and produced the key, which she, 
overjoyed, almost snatched from his hand. The noise she made in 
her excitement, as she opened the door, seemed to disturb 'him, for 
he began to move restlessly, like a person on the point of waking. 
Once in the corridor, however, Olivia was bold ; she passed her 
hands several times slowly down his arms, murmuring in a low, 
soothing tone, injunctions to him to get home quickly. This treat- 
ment succeeded perfectly. His manner lost its momentary restless- 
ness, and it was in the same stolid way as he came that he got out on 
the ladder, descended, replaced the ladder in the long grass, and 
climbed over the wall. 

Olivia watched his retreating figure as long as it was in sight, and 
then, feeling sick and cold slunk back into her rooms, not forgetting 
to lock the outer door of the passage safely behind her. Likd 
most women, however brave, when they have" been through an ex- 
citing crisis, she felt exhausted, limp, almost hysterical. She stag- 
gered as she entered the bedroom, and it was with a reeling brain 
that 'she walked up and down, up and down, unable to sleep, unable 
even to rest. She knew the mystery now, and she felt that the know- 
ledge was almost more than she could bear. 

Next morning her appearance, when she came down late to break- 
fast, was so much affected by the awful night she had passed that even 
the children wondered what was the matter with her. Mr. Denison, 
believing it to be the result of his avoidance of her the evening be- 
fore, was cut to the heart with remorse, while his wife, alarmed at 
the change in the girl, altered her tone, and did her best to be kind 
to her. Olivia could not eat. Her cheeks were almost livid ; her 
great eyes seemed to fill her face ; the hand she held out to be shaken 
was cold, clammy, and trembling. Her amiable little half sister, 
Beatrix, saw an opening for a disagreeable remark, and made use 
of it. 

“Mr. Williams wouldn’t say you were pretty if he could see you 
now,” said she. “Would he, mamma?” 

Like most children, she was quick enough to detect how inhar- 
monious were the relations between her mother and her step-sister. 
She was surprised to find, however, that for once she received no 
sympathy from the quarter whence she expected it. 

“Be quiet, Beatrix, and don’t be rude,” said Mrs. Denison, sharply, 
with a glance at Olivia, on whom she thought that the reference to 
the supposed cause of her distress would have some sudden and vio- 
lent effect. 

“Can’t you keep those children in better order, Marian?” asked 
Mr. Denison, peevishly. “Their rudeness is getting quite intoler- 
able.” 

However, Olivia scarcely heard this little discussion, and was in 
no way moved by it. But when the talk turned to the proposed re- 


BT. CUTHBBRT’S tower. 


187 


Btoration of St. Cuthbert’s and from that to the persons interested in 
it, she grew suddenly very still, and sat- looking down at her plate, 
listening to each word with fear of what the next would be. 

“I wonder how the vicar likes to see his wife about so constantly 
with another man, if it is his own brother,” said Mrs. Denison, who, 
in spite of her experience as a governess, was one of those people 
who think it doesn’t matter what subjects you discuss before children, 
because “they don’t understand.” “I’m sure the last week or so 
I’ve scarcely seen one withpuirthe other.” 

“ Well, now, do you know, I thought it was awfully good-natured 
of her. You know" the stories that have been flying about lately. 
I’m sure I don’t pretend to say whether there’s any truth in them or 
not ; still they have been flying about.” 

“ And not "without some ground, you may depend,” said Mrs. 
Denison, tartly. 

While avoiding the subject which she supposed to be the cause of 
Olivia’s present distress, her step-mother could not resist the oppor- 
tunity of giving that headstrong young ladv a few gentle thrusts on 
the subject of her “fancy for murderers.^’ Mr. Denison glanced 
from his wife to his daughter, who by putting strong constraint on 
herself, appeared not to notice what was being said. 

“ Well, and as she must know the rights of the story, it seems to 
me all the kinder in Mrs. Brander to take any notice of him now, 
when he’s under a cloud, as it were.” 

Ikirs. Denison utter a little sound significant of doubt and scorn. 

“ It is to be hoped that everybody else will put as kind an inter- 
pretation upon her conduct,” she said, drily. “ Only last Tuesday I 
met them as I walked back from the Towers. They were sitting in 
that little cart sort of thing Mrs. Brander drives— not at all the right 
kind of turnout for a clergyman’s wife, in my opinion— and talking 
together so— well, so confidentially- that they took no notice of me 
whatever.” 

“Didn’t see you, of course,” said Mr. Denison, shortly. 

“ It may have been that, certainly,” assented his wife, incredu- 
lously. “ Or it may be that they are not too much lost to shame to 
avoid the eye of a lady whom they respect when they feel they are 
not behaving quite correctly.” 

“Rubbish !” said Mr. Denison, shortly. 

It was so seldom that the so-called head of the house ventured so 
near to an expression of adverse opinion that there was a short 
silence, which his wife broke in a dangerously dignified manner. 

“Perhaps,” she began, with strong emphasis, “when the whole 
truth comes to light concerning his relations with other ladies, my 
opinion on the matter will not be considered ‘ rubbish’ after all.” 

Reginald, with the delightful relish of an innocent child for con- 
versation not intended for his ears, had left off making patterns on 
the tablecloth with the mustard spoon, in order to listen and watch 
with his mouth open. He now broke in with a happy sense that he 
was making mischief. 

“Oh, look, mamma, what a funny color Olivia’s face has gone !” 
cried he, pointing to her with the mustard spoon. 

The girl got up and left the room. Her father, who could not be^r 


188 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


to see any one unhappy, was miserable at the thoug-ht that he him- 
self was partly the cause of his darling daughter’s grief. 

“Olivia, my dear child, come down— come here,'’ he called after 
her from the hall as she fled upstairs. 

She never could resist any appeal from him, so she crept down 
again, unwillingly enough. 

“ Oh, that Avoman, that woman ! Papa, I must go away, I can’t 
live with her,” she whispered as she laid her head on his shoulder 
and received his caress and incoherent attempts at comfort. 

“Well, dear, what can I do?” he whispered, apologetically, back. 
“ You see, you were such a little thing when your mother died, and 
I hate a household without a woman in it, so ^inat even—” 

“ Even an objectionable woman is better than none,” suggested 
Olivia, mischievously. 

“ Oh, no, my dear, I didn’t say that,” whispered he, hurriedly. 

“No, papa, "you don’t dare,” said Olivia, with a touch of her old 
archness. “ Treally think that when a man Avith children marries a 
second time, he ought to drown the first lot in mercy to them.” 

Poor Mr. Denison looked down at her ruefully. 

“ My- dear, I hope you didn’t mean that,” was all he ventured to 
say. 

“Yes, I did.” 

Here Mr. Denison perceived an opening for a suggestion which 
his wife, of late, had been constantly urging him to make. Not 
being quite sure how his daughter would take it, he hurried it out in 
a shamefaced manner without looking at her. 

“ Since you don’t get on very well together, I wonder you don’t 
take the chance of getting a nice home of your OAvn : you know you 
could if you like.” 

“ What ; by wearing little Freddie Williams for ever on my watch 
chain ?” cried Olivia, turning off the suggestion as a joke to avoid 
paining her father by expressing the disgust she felt. 

“Weil, my child, you know I shouldn’t press upon you anything 
that wouldn’t make you happy ; but if you wait for a husband worthy 
of you, you’ll die an old maid.” 

“ And if you’ll go on living till you’re about a hundred and five to 
keep me company, papa. I’ll be the oldest old maid in England with 
pleasure,” said she, affectionately, as she kissed his cheek and ran 
aAvay upstairs. 

She had some work to do this morning ; work for which she must 
drive all thought of last night’s adventure out of her head. As soon 
as she reached her own room she unlocked the drawer in which she 
kept her trinkets, and spreading them out before her on the dressing- 
table, she mentally passed them in review to decide which were the 
most likely to be saleable. Not a bad collection for a young girl, 
they formed ; though Olivia, ignorant as she was about the v^ue of 
jeAvellery, thought how poor they looked from the point of view at 
which she was now considering them. A pair of turquoise and pearl 
earrings and brooch to match, a heavy gold bracelet, a set of garnets 
and pearls of quaint, old-fashioned design, a handsome silver chate- 
laine watch, a quantity of silver bangles, a few very modest-looking 
rings, a diamond arrow brooch, and a massive gold necklet. Every- 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


189 


thing* but the arrow, which had been a present from her father oh 
her eig'hteenth birthday, looked, in a strictly commercial lig'ht, 
clumsy or out of date. The arrow must be sacrificed, she told her- 
self with a sigh ; so must the gold necklet and bracelet, which she 
rightly judged to be next in value. If she could only sell these 
things, and get ten or twelve pounds for them, she could pav off a 
fair instalnient of her father’s debt to Fred Williams immediately, 
and she must trust to luck and her own determination for the rest. So 
she made a parcel of the trinkets she had chosen, and, at the last 
moment, packed also the turquoise and pearl set ; then, dressing 
hastily, she slipped out of the nouse, and started at a rapid pace on 
her way to Matherham. 

Before she reached the high road, however, she was met by Fred 
Williams, who was sauntering about, pipe in mouth, at the point 
where the roads met, on the chance of meeting her. He surveyed 
her with a sidelong look of unwilling admiration. 

“Good-morning, Miss Denison,” he said, curtly, pulling off his 
cap in a sort of grudging manner. “I suppose you have nothing 
fresh to say to me this morning ?” 

“Not at present, though I may have by-and-by,” said she, 
lightly. 

“ On, well, er — do you know whether your father is likely to be 
about this morning ? I want to see him on business.” 

Olivia looked at him with great contempt from under her sweeping 
black eyelashes. 

“He is about, of course ; but I don’t think you need trouble your- 
self to see him, for I have a message to you from him. It is'this : 
the first instalment of the money he owes you will be paid to-day, 
and the remainder very shortly. And he is very sorry to have put 
you to any inconvenience by accepting the loan.’’ 

With which speech, and a low bow, Olivia left Mr. Williams to 
the enjoyment of his own- society. 

Then on she sped towards Matherham, not by way of the wood and 
St. Cuthbert’s, but by the shorter road that went past the Towers. 
A great bare building it was, standing ostentatiously on very high 
ground, with a spire here, a minaret there, and various irr^ular 
erections springing up from the roof to make good its name. O^livia 
laughed to herself, and wished the lady who might ultimately obtain 
the hand of her mean-spirited admirer joy of her bargain. ‘She was 
not unhappy ; the fearful nature of her discovery of the night before 
had shaken" her out of the depression from which she had lately been 
suffering. She was excited, full of indignation and of energy : her 
head fun of wild surmises, of fears connected with the approaching 
crisis. As if trying to keep pace with her fantastic thoughts, her 
feet seemed to fly along the ground. The few persons she passed 
stared at or curtseyed to her without any acknowledgment ; she saw 
no one but the people in her thoughts. 

Suddenly she was roused out of her wild reverie by hearing her 
own name called in sharp tones. She looked down from the nigh 
pathway alongside the hedge into the road, which at this point was 
some five feet below. There she saw the vicarage pony carriage, 
containing Mrs. Brander, who was driving, with Vernon sitting 


190 


BT. CUTHBliaiT’S TOWER. 


her side. It was the lady who had called to Olivia. Having pulled 
up the ponies to the side of the road, she now beckoned to the girl in 
an impatient, imperious manner, to come down. 

“Good-morning,” said Olivia, coldl^r, without attempting to leave 
the pathway. Her cheeks had grown in an instant deadly white on 
seeing who was the lady’s companion ; but she did not glance at 
him. 

“ I can’t stop this morning, Mrs. Brander ; I’m. in a great hurry,” 
she said, in an unsteady voice, while her heart beat violently, and 
she felt that if the interview lasted a minute longer she should not be 
able to stand without support. 

“ But I have something important to say to you — ^very important. 
I really must beg you to give me a moment ; and, if you like, I will 
drive you into Matherham myself.” 

“No, thank you,” said Olivia, hastily. 

“One minute, then, I beg. Miss Denison.” 

The imperious lady’s voice had suddenly broken and become im- 
ploring. Olivia, with downcast eyes, and feet that tottered under 
her, found a convenient place for a descent into the road, and the next 
minute stood by the pony carriage, on the side where Mrs. Brander 
was sitting. She neither looked up nor spoke, but left the opening 
of the conversation to the vicar’s wife, whose hands, as she held the 
reins, shook with a nervousness altogether unusual with her. With 
strange diffidence, too, Mrs. Brander hesitated before she spoke. 

“ You are walking into Matherham?” she asked, at last. 

“Yes, Mrs. Branfe.” 

“ You are sure you won’t let me drive you in?” 

“ Quite sure, thank you,^^,, . 

“Vernon, you know, would" get down; he’d rather walk I’m 
certain.” 

Olivia’s face became suddenly crimson. 

“I couldn’t think of turning Mr. Brander out,” she said coldly. 

“ I should be delighted,” murmured Vernon in a low tone. 

In spite of all her efforts to retain her self-command, Olivia shivered 
at the sound of his voice. She felt, althoup'h she never once looked 
at the face of either, that both the man and the^woman were watch- 
ing her intently. They had some suspicion of the knowledge she 
had so strangely obtained, she was sure. There was a pause, and 
then Mrs. Brander spoke again. 

“You don’t look so well as usual this morning, Miss Denison,” she 
said, not quite able to keep curiosity and anxiety out of her tone. 
“ You are quite pale. We miss your lovely roses.” 

“ I have had a bad night,” said Olivia, shortly, and with a sudden 
determination that it would be better to let them know all she had 
discovered. 

The effort Mrs. Brander made to retain her usual calmness and 
coldness was piteous to see. Her beautiful features quivered ; her 
great black eyes were dilated with apprehension. 

“A bad night?” she repeated, inquiringly. 

“ Yes. I was frightened. A man got into my sitting-room.” 

Neither of her hearers made any but the faintest attempt to affect 
astonishment. 


8T. cuthbert’s tower. 


191 


**It must have alarmed yon horribly,” said Mrs. Branderwith 
blanched lips. “Did you call any one?^’ 

“No.” 

Over the face of the vicar’s wife came an expression of great 
relief. 

“ Have you told any one?” 

“This is the first time I have mentioned it.” 

There was a pause. 

“ Have you any idea — who — the man — was?” 

“I recognized him at once, before he got in at the win- 
■ dow. He spoke to me, but he did not know who I was. He was 
asleep.” 

“ He spoke to you ?” 

“Yes. He addressed me as ‘ Nellie.’ ” 

Olivia had dropped her eyes, but she heard Mrs. Brander’s breath, 
coming quickly, as if she was choking. The girl put her hand out 
impulsively on the arm of the elder lady, and whispered, without 
looking up — 

“ You made me tell you. And, after all, what does it matter? I 
think you know.” 

She felt her hand seized with a convulsive pressure. 

“ You will say nothing ?” Then Mrs. Brander snatched her hand 
away. “ No, no ; it is asking too much, of course. And perhaps, 
after all, it would be of no use.” 

“At any rate, Mrs. Brander, nobody but you will ever hear the 
story from me.” 

She ignored Vernon, as she had ignored him throughout the whole 
of the interview. Mrs. Brander drew a labored sigh. 

“I trust you,” she said in a hoarse voice. “ A woman can keep a 
secret as well as a man, I know.” 

“ Oh, yes, ” said Olivia, simply. “Now you will let me go, will 
you not ?” 

She was frank, honest; but she was not cordial ; scarcely .even 
kind. When Mrs. Brander pre.ssed her hand again, however, she 
returned the pressure with a firm clasp. Then, still without a glance 
at Vernon, she bowed and wished the vicar’s wife “good-morning,” 
and, turning, resumed her walk towards Matherham. She had not 
gone many yards before she quickened her pace still more, hearing 
footsteps she recognized behind, and then beside her. 

It was Vernon Brander. 

For some time he walked on in silence by her side, not daring to 
addre.ss her. At last he said, humbly, imploringly— 

“ Won’t you speak to me?” 

No answer. 

“Have you forgotten all you once said to me about friendship?” 

“ No,” she answered in a frightened, constrained voice, still with- 
out looking at him. 

•‘llemember, what you saw last night was no worse than what 
you alreadv believed.” 

“ Yes it was !” panted Olivia. “It was worse ; much worse— to see 
—to hear. It was something I shall never forget. But don’t let us 
speak of it” 


192 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ But is it to make this difference, that you will never speak to me 
again 

“ It is to make no difference ; you heard me say so. You wish it ; 
she wishes it. 1 have promised.” 

“I take you at your word. If you had discovered nothing you 
would have let me go into Matherham with you, and you would have 
told me the object of vour going. Will you nowi^” 

“Yes, if you like, Mr. Branaer.” In spite of herself, her tone was 
more formal than usual. “lam going to get some money to repay 
a loan from that wretched little Fred Williams.” 

“ To your father, of course. And I suppose,” he added, glancing 
at the little parcel she carried in her hand, “you are going to sell 
some trinkets of your own to do so.” 

“ To help to do so,” answered Olivia, with a blush and a look of 
surprise at his perspicacity. “ The whole sum is much more than 
anything of mine could fetch.” 

“ Will you tell me how much?” 

“ Thirty pounds !” 

“And will vou, as a pledge of what you said — that you will forget 
everything— So for me what I know you would not do for any other 
man ?” 

“What is that?” 

“Let me lend you the money. I spend nothing. I have a con- 
siderable sum saved, and it will do me a pleasure— such a pleasure !” 
he added, earnestly, below his breath. “ It would be a mark of con- 
fidence which would prove to me, whatever I may have done wrong 
— and my conscience is not too clear, I know, you know — prove to 
me that you have a little compassion, a little kindness, for me still.” 

Without answering in words, Olivia, who was trembling violently, 
took his hand, pressed it quickly for one moment in hers, and let it 
drop hastily, as if she had been too bold. 

Then, without the exchange of a single word more, they walked 
through the narrow, hilly streets of Matherham, which they had now 
reached, until they came to the bank where Vernon kept an account. 
Olivia walked on while he went into the building ; in a very few 
minutes he overtook her and put an envelope into her hand. She did 
not thank him ; he did not give her time. 

“I am very grateful,” he said simply ; “I— I can’t say any more 
now. Good-bye.” 

Olivia looked up and spoke with a sob in her voice. 

“ Good-bye,” she said. 

Then they looked into each other’s eyes with the long, sad look of 
a fareAvell, and she was not sui-pi-i.sed at his next words. 

“ I daresay,” he said in a hoarse voice, “that I shall be going 
away from here before long : I daresay I shall have to— when the 
tower is built,” he added in a whisper, looking down. “No, don’t 
say anything— I couldn’t bear it.” 

But Olivia, though she tried, could utter no word. She wrung 
his hand and looked straight into his face with an expression of 
passionate sympathy and despair, Then, without another word, 
they parted. 


ST. OUTHBERT’S TOWER. 


ms 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Olivia hurried back towards the farm with the little packet in her 
hand which was to release her father from his hateful indebtedness 
to Fred Williams. It was true it rendered her herself indebted to 
somebody else; but, with a woman’s perversity, she preferred the 
greater evil to the less. It was rather an aAvkward matter, howevei'. 
to acquaint her father with what she had done, especially as she 
found him in the lowest depths of despondency. 

“Don’t speak to me, my dear ; don’t speak to me,” was his greet- 
ing to his daughter when she pounced upon him, with a li^ht-neart- 
ed laugh, from behind the hedge of one of his own cornfields. 

He was contemplating the ripening crop with a most rueful face. 

“ Why not, papa Perhaps I may have some good news for you.” 

“ Good news ! Oh, no,” he answered, dolefully, shaking his head. 
“ It must be for somebody else if you have any good news. So go 
away, or I may be cross ; and I don’t want to speak crossly to you, 
my darling.” 

There was not much fear of such a thing, evidently ; for when she 
persisted in coming to him, and giving him a hearty kiss, the wrin- 
kles in his forehead began immediately to clear away. 

“It’s all your fault, you minx,” said he, looking affectionately at 
the girl’s bonny ^ace. “You’ve turned the heads of all the lads 
about here, and then it’s your poor old father that they ‘ wreak their 
vengeance on,’ as the melodramas say.” 

“Why, papa,” said the girl, blushing, “who’s been teasing you 
now ? Produce him, and let me whither him up with a glance.” 

“ Well, the first thing I heard this morning is that the old brute, 
John Oldshaw, has been making all sorts of mischief about me to 
Lord Stannington’s agent— says I’m ruining the land, and all that ; 
and it’s all because he’s angry at poor Mat’s humble admiration for 
you, 1 know. He says I’m not fit to be a farmer. Now what do you 
think of that?” 

The enormity of this allegation made Mr. Denison quite unable to 
proceed. But Olivia shook her head and laughed. 

“I think, papa, that if all Mr. Oldshaw’s statements were as ver- 
acious as that, he would be a much honester man than he is.” 

“ Why, what ^o you mean, child ?” 

“ That, if the whole world had been thoroughlv scoured to find the 
one man most unsuitable for the occupation of farming, they could 
not have done better than light on you.” 

“ Olivia, I’m surprised at you !” said her father, assuming a tone 
of great dignity, mingled with indig-nation. 

“Ah, you may well be surprised to find a girl with as much com- 
mon sense as a man,” retorted she, merrily. For since her return 
from Matherham her spirits hadri.senin an extraordinary manner. 
“Now, papa, look at John Oldshaw. He’s a perfect type of a suc- 
cessful farmer. And he's mean, and he’s vulgar, and he’s indus- 
trious, and he’s economical ; while you, pardon me, are none of those 
things. I don’t sav that all good farmers are like John Oldshaw, but 
I’m certain none of them area bit like you. And if he can persuade you 


6T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


m 

that you’ll never do anything’ at farming’ but lose your money, and 
catch cold looking- at oats that won’t ripen and turnips that won’t 
come up, lie’ll do you a very g’reat service.” 

“But, my dear,’’ remonstrated her father, not quite certain whether 
to be amused or offended by her wicJ^ed plain speaking’, “you don’t 
understand these thing’s. Women never do, of course. It’s not 
their province and we don’t expect it of them.” The poorold fellow’s 
tone g’rew more confident when he g-ot into these mild platitudes. 
'“ John Oldshaw has always shown himself jealous of me: firstly, be- 
cause I’m a g-entleman ; and, secondly, because I conduct my farm- 
ing- on different principles from his.” 

“Yes, papa,” said Olivia, demurely, “on very different principles. 
He g-ets large crops and you g-et small ones. And John Oldsnaw 
wants to turn you out, and apply his principles to your land. And I 
wish you would let him.” 

Mr. Denison sighed. He could not quite hide from himself 
that there were ^-rainsof truth and good sense in his daughter’s sug- 
gestions. But tne secret admission made him impatient and irri- 
table. 

“Of course,” he said turning upon her, “I’m not likely to get on 
here or anywhere while my people insult the friends who would help 
me to tide* over the bad time.” 

“ Do you mean that I’ve insulted Fred Williams, papa?” asked 
Olivia who was too straightforward to allow the talk to be carried 
on by iniiendoes. 

“ Well, and what if I do ?” asked Mr. Denison, taken aback. For 
he was one of those persons who would walk round about a fact for 
ever without facing it. 

“ Has the little reptile been worrying you about the money he lent 
you ?” 

“ Reptile !” echoed Mr. Denison, trving to evade the question. 
“ That is a strong word for a young lady to use, my dear. Not but 
what I have been disappointed*^ in that young fellow. He seemed such 
a generous, open-hearted lad that I own he induced me to break my 
rule and allow him to accommodate me in a little difficulty I was 
Jn— ” 

“And are you out of the difficulty, papa?” 

“ Well, my dear, I am, in a sense out of that one. But difficulties 
have such a way of clinging tog'etiier ; where they’ve been once they 
come again.” 

“ And this wretched creature has been worrying you, then?” 

“ Well, he spoke to me about vou in such a way that I was mad 
with myself for having allowed him to oblige me.” 

“I think I can free you from that obligation, papa,” said she, 
gentlv. “ Only you mustn’t ask where the money came from.” 

“ What?” cried he in astonishment. “My dear child, you are 
dreaming'. I owe him thirty pounds.”- 

“T,ookhere.” 

She opened her little packet, and unfolded before him six five 
pound notes. 

“But, Olivia, I can’t take these from you without knowing how you 
got them,” said her father, trying to a*ssume a rather severe paternal 
air. 


8T. CUTHBERT*S TOWER. 


195 


**It’s very simple ; I went into Matherham, followed a rich -looking 
old gentleman into a quiet street, knocked him down, and robbed 
him,” she answered, laughing. “But you needn’t have any qualms 
of conscience about the proceeds of the deed, for I’m going to hand 
them over to Fred Williams myself, with a message from you— . 
which I shall make up.” 

“But, Olivia, I really cannot permit — ” 

“It’s too late now ; the power of permission is denied you. But, 
remember, when you next meet that miserable little goose, you can 
hold up your head and snap your lingers at him, for there will be no 
obligation between you any longer.” 

She nodded good-bye to him very brightly, checked his expostula- 
tions with a kiss, and ran olf over the tields in the direction of the 
Towers. 

For Olivia was feverishly anxious to pay off the debt, and she had 
little doubt that she would find Fred loungi ig on h s father’s lawn, 
softening what brains he had by the help of some liuid or other, and 
a strong cigar. She met him, however, before she reached the gate 
of the Towers. He had just come from Matherham in a han.som, 
and was quarrelling with the cabman about his fare ; but when he 
caught sight of Olivia he changed his tone, and threw the man a 
handful of silver with an ostentatious air. Then he came up to her 
with a manner full of exag’gerated respect, and an expression of face 
in which the girl instantly detected a good deal of malice. 

“ Delighted to see you, "Miss Denison ; it isn’t often you do us the 
honor of a visit up here. You wish to see my sister, I suppose.” 

“ No, I came to see you, and I won’t detain you long. 1 am com- 
missioned by my father to bring you the money you so kindly 
lent him, and to say ho\y deeplv obliged he is for the graceful gener- 
osity you have shown him in this matter.” 

Fred Williams was annoyed, but he did not seem surprised. 

“Oh, all right,” he said, grutfiy. “You needn’t sneer. Your 
guv’nor was precious glad to takedt at the time: that’s ail I know. 
And you haven’t got me on toast as you think, for I saw you pass 
here this morning, and I followed you into Matherham, and I know 
what you did there,” he added, triumphantly. 

“ Nothing that I am ashamed of,” said tb^ girl, quietly. 


to-morrow the workmen begin to aig m &t. umnoerc s cnuicn> arcr, 
and if they should come across anytliing that’ll upset your friend’s 
apple-cart, remember you had the chance to stop it. And perhaps 
you won’t feel so proud then of having got clear of debt to me by 


running into debt with a murderer. Yes, a murderer. Miss High- 



and your friend by 
gentleman, that I am!” xi. .. nr wu- 

“You couldn’t say anything stronger than that, Mr. Williams, 
said Olivia, ingenuously. “I suppose I shall have the pleasure of 
meeting you to-morrow at St. Cuthbert’s. Ooed- morning. 

And, quite unallected by his threats, she bowed to him with gre.at^ 


196 ST. cuthbert’s tower. 

ceremony, and tripped away down the road as if greatly pleased witk 
her interview. 

But Olivia was not at ease ; she only appeared so because she was 
excited to the pitch of recklessness. As the day drew on, and the 
time for the commencement of the excavations at St. Cuthbert’g 

f rew nearer, she became restless, depressed, and so irritable that she 
ad to pass the time either out of doors or in her own rooms, to 
avoid the domestic friction which she felt that to-day she could not 
bear. Next morning she awoke with a deadening sense of being on 
the brink of some great danger. At the breakfast “ table, at which 
she duly appeared to avoid giving unnecessary alarm to her father, 
her looks again proyoked much comment, which she bore as patiently 
as she could, being particularly anxious not to encourage a discus- 
sion which might lead to interference with a project she had in view. 
She was so impatient to leave the house* that every trifling delay 
seemed to her to be part of a conspiracy to keep her indoors. When 
her usual household duties were disposed of, when Mrs. Denison’s 
request that she would make up a parcel for the dyer’s had been 
complied with, she crept upstairs with a heart full of anxiety, 
dressed, slipped out of tlie house, and sped away in the direction of 
St. Cuthbert’s. 

For all her haste, she could not reach the churchyard much before 
twelve o’clock, when the workingmen, their morning’s labor almost 
over, were slackening their efforts in anticipation of the dinner hour. 
Already their invasion had entirely changed the aspect of the church- 
yard. Piles of scaffolding poles, ladders, and boards lay just inside 
the walls. Planks* placed across the broken gravestones, formed 
bridges for the passage of wheelbarrow's to and from the scene of 
operations. This, Olivia saw, was the ground at the foot of the tower, 
extending to the crvpt, the entrance to wdiich had been freed from 
the stones and brichs which had blocked it up for so long. The men 
seem to be at work in all directions : some w'ere erecting a scaffold- 
ing against the old tow'er, the upper part of which was to be taken 
down ; some carting aw'ay stones and rubbish from the east end ; 
some removing that corner of the roof of the south aisle which, in a 
crumbling and dangerous condition, still remained. But it w'as upon 
the corner where the old crypt was that Olivia’s attention at once 
fixed. For here, listening perfunctorily with one ear to old Mr. 
Williams, who had a self-made man’s veneration for his own 
utterances, and keeping a sharp lookout upon two workmen whose 
labors within the crypt he was superintending, w^as Ned Mitchell. 

Nothing had happened so far, Olivia easily guessed ; no discoveries 
had been made ; no alarm had been given. But to her fancy, there 
hung over the whole place the hush of expectancy : the workmen 
scarcely spoke to each other, the onlookers seemed to hold their 
breath. Another feature of the scene was that these onlookers each 
seemed to have come by stealth, and to wish to remain unnoticed by 
the rest. Olivia herself, for instance, remained outside the church- 
yard w'all, seeing only so much of the operations as could be observed 
from the highest part of the rough and broken ground. Then, lurk- 
ing behind the hedge on the opposite side of the lane, was the lame 
tramp, Abel Squires, who from this post could see very little more 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


19? 


than the scaffolding' poles, but who had remained there, nevertheless, 
since the moment, early that morning, when the workmen fronj 
Sheffield first made their appearance, vernon was inside the church, 
keeping out of the way of everyone but the foreman, to whom h€ 
was giving certain structural explanations, while Mrs. Brandei 
watched the proceedings from her pony carriage in the lane, and 
Fred Williams from the church roof. A small crowd of the country 

a le, chiefly children and' old pit women, filled up the spaces, and 
e the isofatioii of the others less noticeable. Roaming about the 
churchvard, in a somewhat impatient manner, was also a gentleman 
whom Olivia did not immediately recognize as the doctor who had 
attended Ned Mitchell in his illness. 

It was a sultry day ; sunless and heavy. The smoke of the Shef- 
field chimneys hung over the hills in a thick black cloud, and appeared, 
Olivia thought, to be coming nearer and nearer. The air seemed to 
choke instead of invigorate ; the leaves of the trees hung parched 
and still. The girl's excitement had all evaporated ; she waited 
there without hope, without fear, in a dull state of expectancy, her 
clearest thought being a faint wish that she might be able to get 
quietly home again without having to speak to any one. Still ^e 
stood there, and watched the workmen slowly putting on their coats, 
the doctor as he flitted about the churchyard, without quite knowing 
whether she was asleep or awake, whether the figures, moving 
silently about, were flesh -and-blood creatures, or images seen in a 
dream. 

Suddenly a breath of air seemed to pass over every one, and the 
stirring of a more active life was felt. It was a voice at the gate of 
the churchvard w’hich broke the hushed silence, and made every eye 
look up, while the women and children curtseyed, and the w'orkmen 
touched their caps. The Vicar of Rishton, cheerful and smiling and 
bland, had worked the change by his appearance alone. A certain 
listlessness, which had begun toY‘reep over watchers and workers at 
the end of an eventless morning under a sullen sky, disappeared. 
There arose a hum of talk ; the workmen who had left off work 
hurried to their dinner cans ; the few who were still digging felt a 
spurt of fresh energy. It was felt that the portly presence of the 
much-respected vicar gave eclat to the proceedings, and new interest 
to a monotonous occupation. Only Ned Mitchell remained entirely 
unmoved. He gave the clergyman a glance and a nod, and then 
turned again to the two men at work in the crypt. 

“ Get on, you lazv devils !” he said, kicking a stone impatiently. 
“You might be millionaires, both of you, not to think it worth while 
to work harder for the chance of a ten -pound note.” 

“ Why, we’ve turned the whole place out, master, and blest if 
there’s a bloomin’ thing to be found there except earth and stones,” 
said one, in a rather grumbling tone. 

“Hey, whati"” asked Mr. Williams, in a surprised tone, “What’s 
that they’re looking for, eh, Mitchell? Something lost ? Something 

Both ^l^t and buried,” said Ned, briefly. “ What do you think, 

^^^nd he turned quickly to the Reverend Meredith Brander, who 


198 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


had by this time, after a triumphal prog*ress between two lines of 
admiriiii^ villa^’crs, reached the gi'oup. 

“AVell, the churcliyard is the place for the lost and buried, cer- 
tainly,” replied the vicar, whose bri"-ht complexion and serene smile 
were a charming' thing- to see after the anxious and g-loo'ftiy faces the 
rest of the assembly had been wearing. “But, as we know, a time 
will come when we shall recover our lost ones,” he added, with g-eutle 
solemnity. 

“ Some of us will recover ’em sooner than we barg-ain for, per- 
haps,” said Ned, drily. 

The vicar did not answer ; indeed he looked as if he did not under- 
stand. He nodded pleasantly, and looked round, smiling* on such 
members of his family and of his con^-regation as were insight. For 
a curious thing had happened since nis coming ; all those before- 
mentioned spectators, who had been watching as it were by stealth, 
now with one accord drew near to the entrance of the crypt, and cast 
at the vicar sidelong glances of deep interest. Thus Olivia, Mrs. 
Brander, Vernon, the doctor, and Abel Squires found themselves, as 
if by preconcerted arrangement, within a few feet of each other, and 
yet seemed to be unaware of this fact. The vicar also seemed not to 
notice thi.s, but Ned Mitchell took in the curious situation with a keen 
glance, and read the varied expressions of curiosity, anxiety, and 
despondency on the several faces with cynical swiftness. 

The men in the crypt did not leave off work with the rest ; 
on the contrary, urged on by Ned Mitchell, whose tone grew sharper 
with every order he gave, tliey used pickaxe and spade with renew- 
ed energy. , 

“I don’t quite understand the necessity for all this delving in the 
crypt,” said old Mr. Williams, at la.st, rather pompously. 

He was a man by habit too much occupied with himself to have 
troubled his head about the stories and scandals of the neighborhood, 
and no suggestion of any mystery connected with St. Cuthbert’s had 
ever reached his ears. 

“You'll see presently, perhaps,” answered Ned, who betrayed his 
ever-increasing excitement only by the growing curtness of his 
tone. 

For he perceived, peering down into the gloom where the men 
were working, that the digging and delving had suddenly ceased, 
and that, in the remotest corner of the little crvpt, both were kneel- 
ing down examining the lower part of the waif. Then one of the men 
struck a match, and a moment later his fellow workman came to the 
opening. 

“We’ve found something, sir !” said he, in a low voice. 

“Eh? What?” asked old Mr. Williams, who began to have an 
idea that he was being made a fool of. 

' There was a sort of a rustle and flutter among the bystanders i 
for though all had not heard the workman’s words all knew that 
something had happened. Ned Mitchell, who was now so much ex- 
cited that he dared not trust himself to speak, beckoned to the doc- 
tor. The latter, who was on the alert, came up immediately. He 
was an active, brisk little man, sparing of words. 

“I think we shall want you now, doctor, please,” said Ned, in a 


ST. ctjthbert’s tower. 199 

voice which was g’ctting* hoarse and rasping*. “ What is it you have 
found, mate?” he went on, turning to the workman. 

“ It’s a body, we think, voiir honor— the body of a woman.” 

The vicar, on entering the churchyard, had locked the gate, to 
keep out the swarm of unruly boys who always ooze out of me pores 
of the earth when anything of an unusual nature is going on. So 
that few people but tnose most interested in this discovery were pres- 
ent to hear the announcement of it. These all pressed forward until 
they stood— a silent, excited group— close to the crypt entrance. 
Mrs. Brander, although she remained perfectly quiet, laid her hand, 
either from sympathy or for support, on the arm of her brother-in- 
law. Vernon himself looked if possible more pale and haggard than 
ever, but his face wore its habitual expression when in repose, a look 
of grave and somewhat cynical good humor. The only noticeable 
thing about his demeanor was his careful avoidance of Olivia Den- 
ison ; he would not even meet her eyes. The girl herself was white 
to the lips and cold from head to foot. Fred Williams, in a cheerful 
voice offered her the support of his arm. 

“ These are nasty scenes for a lady to be present at,” said he, with 
a little compunction in his voice. “ Won’t you let me take you 
away ?” • 

She shook her head, and signed for him to leave her, which he did 
reluctantly and with some shame. In the meantime the gentlemen 
had descended into the crypt, with the exception of Vernon, who was 
detained by Mrs. Brander. By the light of a lantern and a torch, a 
ghastly sight was soon disclosed to view. 

In the lower part of the wall of the crypt, in the corner nearest the 
entrance, to which no daylight could ever pierce its way, was un- 
earthed between the basis of two of the pillars supporting the roof, 
the almost fleshless skeleton of a woman, the damp rags of whose 
dress, still recognizable, hung around the bones in shrunken folds. 
The flaring and flickering of the “lights on what had once been a 
beautiful face, on the remains of the flnery which every other girl 
in the village had once envied, made'an ever-changing, hideous pic- 
ture, upon which the men all gazed with feelings of pity, horror, and 
disgust. 

A savage exclamation burst from Ned’s lips. Old Mr. Williams 
was struck dumb with horror ; for to him the discovery was quite 
unforeseen. The doctor bent over the skeleton, and taking a lantern 
into his own hand, looked carefully at the horrible thing, touched it, 
removed part of the ragged clothing*, and muttered something the 
rest could not hear. Tne Vicar of Rishton, accustomed to death in 
many forms, maintained a demeanor of reverend gravity, tempered 
by amazement. As the doctor stopped, however, he interposed with 
some haste, and, coming close beside him, tried gently but firmly to 
thrust him aside. 

“ There must bean inquiry into this, I suppose, ” he said ; “though, 
for the sake of the unhappy man who committed this deed, and whom 
we know to have repented long ago, I trust it may be made as 
quietly as possible. In the meantime the remains must be laid de- 
cently in some suitable place. I would suggest the church itself.” 

The doctor interrupted him brusquely. He, with the rest, had been 
listening in dead silence to the clergyman’s words. 


200 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


“ Where you like, vicar : but I must make an examination first. 
If I’m not mistaken, I’ve seen something* just now which will be a 
positive means of identifying* the murderer.” Still the vicar insisted, 
gently, but with becoming determination. 

“ I really think, in a matter touching the sanctity of the dead, 
that I, as vicar, ought to have a voice.” 

“ But you’re not the vicar of this church,” said the doctor, stand- 
ing his ground. “The Vicar of St. Cuthbert’s is your brother Ver- 
non, and ii, as you seem to say, he has had anything to do with this 
business 

There was a stir among the hearers, and old Mr. Williams burst 
out, “What! What! Vernon Brander ! Bless me ! You don’t 
mean to say ” 

The vicar was protesting ; Ned Mitchell was swearing and mut- 
tering ; Fred Williams, who had crept in during the last few min- 
utes, was whistling softly to himself, to keep off the horrors. 

Suddenly the doctor, who had again stooped over the skeleton, 
silenced them all in imperious tones. 

“Stand back, gentlemen ! In two moments I can satisfy your 
curiosity as to who murdered this woman.” 

The vicar only attempted to resist this command ; but the doctor, 
with a skilful and most unceremonious thrust, forced him back into 
the rest of the group ; and the next moment the reverend -arms were 
pinioned by Ned Mitchell’s strong hands. 

“Keep back, can’t you?” hissed Ned, roughly into his ear; 
“murder will out, you know! And people might say such ugly 
things if they thougnt you Avanted to hide the truth.’’ 

After this Ihere was a sickening, death like pause, while the doc- 
tor’s hands moved rajiidly about the horrible heap of human bones 
and tattered finery. Then he sprang up, and made quickly for the 
light. The rest followed, huddled together, panting, bewildered, 
like a flock of frightened sheep. For the doctor’s face, old practitioner 
though he was, was livid and tremulous Avith a great horror. Stand- 
ing in the open davlight they found him, looking at something he 
held half concealed in his hand. Mrs. Brander. Vernon, and Olivia 
Denison stood a little Avay olf, AAvatching him, but not daring to 
come near. He closed his hand as the men gathered round him. 

“ Gentlemen,” he began, gravely, in a very Ioav \mice, “there are 
circumstances in this case so revolting that I think that no good can 
come of making them public. But you shall judge. I have found, 
inside the remains of that poor girb a ring Avhich, there can be no 
doubt, Avas the property of the murderer. In spite of the decayed 
state of the body, I can undertake to say that this ring Avas SAvalfow- 
ed by the girl just before her death. Here,” and he held up his 
closed hand, “is the ring. Shall I show it you ?” 

“ No 1” said the Vicar of Bishton, sharply. They all turned to look 
at him. 

“ Why not?” asked the doctor, quietly. 

Meredith Brander had recovered the composure which, indeed, he 
could scarcely be said for a moment to have lost. 

“ What good would it do ?” he asked, gazing blandly in the doctor’s 

face. 


8T. cuthbert’s tower. 201 

Doctor Harper returned his look with astonishment which became 
almost admiration. 

“ Well,” he answered, “it would show up the most remarkably 
perfect specimen of a consummate humbug^ that I have ever had the 
honor of meeting.” 

A curious thing had happened before this short colloquy was ended. 
The rest of the group had gradually dispersed, and left the two men 
alone together. As he uttered the last words, the doctor also turned 
abruptly away, so that the vicar was left by himself. He did not 
seem disconcerted, but walked, with a half smile on his face, in the 
direction of the churchyard gate. His wife, whose handsome face 
was as pale as that of a corpse, and whose limbs tottered under her, 
moved, with faltering step, in the same direction. At the gate stood 
Abel Squires, who stood back to allow the vicar to pass out" first. But 
Meredith Brander would not allow this. He turned to him with a 
kindly nod. 

“Well, Abel,” said he, “I’m afraid this is a sad business for some- 
body.” 

“I’m afeard so too, sir,” replied Abel, with an immovable face. 

“ We must hush it up. I’m sure you would not like any harm to 
come to my brother.” 

“ No fear o’ that, sir,” said Abel. “ I could prevent that.” 

“ Why, how so?” 

“ Ah wur wi’ him all that evenin’. An’ if he hadn’t kept my 
tongue quiet all these years hissen, truth would ha’ been aht long 
ago.” 

The vicar went through the gate without another word. But be- 
fore he had taken many steps in the lane outside, he felt an arm 
thrust through his. It Avas his brother Vernon, who pressed his arm 
warmly two or three times before he spoke. 

“Cheer up, old chap!” he whispered, huskily. “For Evelyn’s 
sake and the children’s Ave can get it kept quiet still.” 

Then, for the first time, Meredith threatened to break down. He 
wrung his brother’s hand Avith a force which made V^eriion turn 
white, and Avhen he ansAvered, it was with sobs in his voice. 

“I’m a scoundrel, Vernie,” he almost gasped. “ But if you save . 
me a^^ain, on my soul I’ll be better to them than many an honest 
man.’^ 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Ned Mitchell, although he had let Meredith Brander off easily at 
the moment of the discovery of the body, had no intention of letting 
his sister’s murderer escape the just punishment of his crime. The 
discovery of the vicar’s ring ins’ide the poor girl’s remains had not 
been altogether unexpected by Ned and by the doctor, Avhom he had 
taken into his confidence. He had had the wit to connect the Aucar’s 
loss of his ring, Avhich the girl must have stolen and secreted un- 
noticed bv him in the course of their last fatal interview, Avith the 
Strange threat Nellie Mitchell had uttered to Martha Lowndes. He 


202 


BT. OUTHBERT’S tower. 


had confided his suspicions to the doctor, who had thus been on the 
alert to prevent Meredith from touching* the remains of the murdered 
g-irl before he himself had examined them. 

After a few words of explanation to old Mr. Williams, and a little 
substantial advice to the two workmen who had dug* out the skeleton, 
Ned marched off with Abel Souires in the direction of Eishton Vicar- 
age. On the way they passed Vernon Brander, who wished to stop 
Ned. But the latter hurried on, and to all the entreaties he tried to 
utter, turned a deaf ear. 

“If you’ve been fool enough to hold your tongue for ten years, 
and bear the blame of somebody else’s crime, that’s nothing to do 
with me. You may talk till you’re tired, but my stster’s mui'derer 
shall get what he deserves.” 

And he walked on stubbornly with the tramp. * 

When they reached the Vicarage, and asked to see the vicar, they 
were shown into the drawing-room, and left waiting there for some 
minutes. When the door opened, it was Mrs. Brander, instead of her 
husband, who came in. 

“ What, has he run away already?” asked Ned, in a hard, jeering 
tone. \ 

“ No, my husband does not yet know you are here,” she answered, 
in a very sad voice. “ I knew vou come, and so 1 told the servant 
to announce voiir arrival to me.’’^ 

“ What’s the good of that?” asked Ned, roughly. “You’ve done 
no harm, and we’ve nothing to do with you, except that we’re going 
to set you free from a rascal.” 

Abel Squires had withdrawn to the 'farthest window, and tried to 
hide himself behind the curtain. Eough fellow as he was, to hear a 
man speak in a bullying tone to that beautiful, dignitied lady was 
too much for him. 

Mrs. Brander had never in her life before looked so handsome as 
she looked now, standing erect before this coarse man, with a hush 
of deep humiliation in her cheeks, and passionate entreaty softening 
her proud eyes. 

“But, my children, my poor children : they have done less harm 
in the world than your sister did, and if you hurt my husband you 
sacrifice them. Think of that. You have children" of your own. 
You don’t dote on them passionately any more than I do on mine ; 
therefore you can enter into my feelings. Is it fair, is it just, that 
they should suffer ? I don’t appeal for myself, for you don’t like me. 
But just think of this: for ten years T have been a dutiful wife to 
this man, who was unfaithful to me even in my fresh youth, Avhen I 
was beautiful, so they said, and loving, and devoted. Listen. I 
knew of the murder on the night he committed it; for he came 
straight back with stained hands, and a face I never shall forget. Do 
you not think that was something to forgive ? But I did it, and I im- 
plore you to do it too. I am not aslvin^ you an impossible thing, for 
I have done it myself. And think under what circumstances!” 

But Ned remamed as hard as nails. 

“I suppose — no offence to you, madam— your motives were not 
entirely unselfish ; and even if they were, that’s no business of mine. 
If you chose to put up with him, that was your lookout. I came 


8T. CUTHBERT’S tower. 


m 

back here to punish my sister’s murderer, and I’m not ffoing* to be 
made a fool or by a woman when the game’s in my own hands.” 

Ned spoke the more harshly, that he was really rather touched by 
her beauty and her high spirit. There was something in her frank, 
straightforward manner of pleading more to his taste than any 
amount of tearful, hysterical incoherence would have been. But 
Mrs. Brander had a most unexpected ally near at hand. Thumpety- 
thump came Abel Squires, with his wooden leg, out of his hiding 
place. He did not look at the lady, but going straight up to Ned, 
jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of where she was 
standing. 

“ Hold hard, Mester Mitchell,” said he, without moving a muscle 
of his dried-up face ; “ Ah didn’t bargain fur this when Ah coom here 
to-day. A woman’s a woman. An’ t’ woman ye’re so soft abaht’s 
dead, but t’ woman ye’re so hard on’s alive. Steady theer, Mester 
Mitchell, or Ah’ll hev to swear Ah killed t’ lass mysen.” 

The poor woman broke down at these words from the rough tramp; 
she turned away abruptly to hide the tears which sprang to her 
eyes. Ned, who was hard, brusque, and determined, but not inhu- 
man, moved uneasily about the room. 

“Women have no business to interfere in these matters,” said he, 
angrily. 

Mrs. Brander saw that there was hope. She moved nearer to him, 
clasping her hands, not in supplication, but because they would 
twitch and tremble, and so betray the anguish' she was suffering. 
She tried to speak, but couldn’t. But with one piteous look out of 
her proud eyes, she turned away again. 

“Well,” said Ned, in very ill-tempered tones, “we’re wasting our 
time here, Abel, and Mrs. Brander’s. So, please, madam, let us see 
your husband, and have done with him.” 

But Mrs. Brander hastened to intercept him on his way to the 
door. 

“ You will not be too hard,” she pleaded, in a breaking voice. 

^ “You are not vindictive, I am sure.” 

“ I beg your pardon, madam, that’s just what I am,” snarled Ned. 
“ And if I’m fool enough not to insist on the hanging he deserves, 
I’m not going to let him off scot free, I can tell you.” • 

“Of course not, of course not,” said she, in a tone of great relief. 
“He has done wrong— great wrong ; and he must suffer for it— we 
must suffer for it. Only don’t expose him. Anything but that.” 

“ Yes, anything but what he deserves, of course. Let us pass, 
madam, please. & is in the library, I suppose?” 

“ 1 suppose so,” she faltered. 

Ned turned round abruptly. 

“ You suppose so ! Well, if he’s given us the slip, and left you to 
bear the brunt of it all, it’ll be the worse for him.” 

Mrs. Brander drew herself up in the old, proud way, and spoke 
with her accustomed cold haughtiness in addressing a person she 
disliked. 

“You need not be afraid, Mr. Mitchell. lean stand by a crim- 
inal husband : I would not by a cowardly one.” 

“Do you call it courageous, then, to kill a woman, and let another 
man bear the blame for ten years?” asked Ned. 


904 


BT. CUTHBBRT’S TOWEB. 


Mrs. Brander did not answer. She led the way across the hall to 
the study, and knocked. 

“Come in,” called out the vicar, in his usual voice. 

She opened the door, and signed to the two men to follow her in. 
Abel would have slunk aw'ay, but Ned Mitchell kept a tight hold on 
his arm. Both, however, kept in the background, near the door, 
while the lady went up to her husband, and laid her hand upon his 
shoulder. He leant back in his comfortable chair, pen still in hand. 
He had been busy writing, and the table was covered with large 
sheets of MS. He faced the two intruders with an air of mild an- 
no3^ance, which would have made an onlooker think that he was the 
injured person. Ned, with astonishment, which he would not admit 
by word or look, examined the bland, fair face, with its healthy com- 
plexion, frank blue eyes, broad white forehead, and saw on it no 
trace of shame, guilt, or even of anxiety. It was his wife’s face 
which bore all these signs. As she stood, upright and daring, by 
her husband’s side, handsome, majestic, ana brave. Ned Mitchell 
felt that to deal with Meredith as he deserved, while she remained 
there, was impossible. He half turned, as if anxious to put off the 
interview. The vicar changed his position, wheeling his chair 
round, so that he could face the two men. 

“ Well,” he said, “you wish to speak to me, do you not?” 

His tone was mildly peremptory. 

“Yes, we do. But wnat we have to say we wish to say to you 
alone.” 

“ Go, my dear,” said Meredith, turning* kindly to his wife. 

She hesitated, and he pushed her gently aw^ay from him. Then 
she stooped, kissed his forehead, and with an imploring, yet still 
dignitied, look into Ned’s reluctant eyes as she passed him, she slow- 
ly left the room. 

“Now,” said Mitchell, in a louder, more assured tone, as if much 
relieved, “ we’ve got an account to settle with you.” 

“ Well, sit downi, and let us have it out.” 

Meredith was not in the least discomposed. He took up the pen he 
had been using, wiped it carefully, and then crossing his legs and 
clasping his hands over them, a.ssumed the attitude in which he was 
accustomed to gave priv^ate advice or consolation to members of his 
flock. 

“ I’m afraid we are interrupting you,” said Ned, ironically ; so he 
prepared to sit down, which Abel shyly refused to do. 

“ Not at all. I w'as writing my sermon for next Sunday, but as I 
suppose it lies wdth you wdietlier I shall be allowed to preach it, I 
can’t complain of your visit as an interruption.” 

“ You take this business pretty coolly,” said Ned, losing patience. 

Meredith looked at him with a sudden hash of lire in his blue eyes, 
a spark of the same fierce spirit wdiich he had revealed to Ned on' the 
night wdien he conquered and controlled the bloodhounds at the 
cottag’e. 

“ i)o you suppose that I have kept my head for ten years to lose it 
now ?” 

Ned w\as taken back. There was a pause before he said, in almost 
a respectful voice — 


8T. cuthbbrt’s tower. 


206 


“ You admit everything*, then.’* 

“I admit everything* you know, of course. This man here could 
prove whatever I mig-ht deny. Besides, everybody knows that ring 
IS mine ; I did not know until to-day howl lost it, as you may guess ; 
else I should have been prepared with some story.” 

Ned Mitchell, who had brought the ring with him and had just 
produced it, thinking to confound the vicar, slipped it back into his 
pocket with uncertain finders. 

“ And you are prepared for the consequences ?” 

“As much prepared as a man ever is for a very unpleasant con- 
tingency.” 

“Even if the contingency is— what the law prescribes for discover- 
ed murderers ?” 

“ You mean hanging ?” 

Ned Mitchell nodded, and the vicar paused. 

“ I won’t say that I am prepared for that ; I can’t say that I ever 
contemplated such a possibility seriously. It would be a terrible 
precedent to hang a vicar. I should probably get otf as of ‘ unsound 
mind,’ and be contined ‘ during her Majesty’s pleasure.’ ” 

“ And if they shouldn’t be so lenient y” 

“ Then I should go through with it as well as a man may.” 

“ And if riet you off the full penalty,” said Ned, wondering if it 
were possible to distui'b this stolid serenity, “what would you feel 
towards me?” 

“Nothing,” answered the vicar, promptly. “You would do it, not 
for my sake, but out of admiration for my wife, pity for my children, 
and because my arrest would involve my brother’s, as an accessory 
after the fact. "He saw me immediately after the — the deed; the 
crime, in fact ; and he concurred, if he did not assist, in the conceal- 
ment of the body, as Abel here probably knows.” 

“ Av,” said Abel Squires, who was standing, awkwardly, as near 
the door as possible. “ Mester Vernon and me had walked nigh all t’ 
way from Sheffield together, and we heerd cries o* ‘Murder !’ An’ 
Mester Vernon he left me, an’ he jumped o’er t’ wall into t’ church- 
yard, an’ wdien he coom back he looked skeered loike, and his reight 
bond wur stained red, as if he’d held another bond that wur redder 
still. An’ somehow Ah gues.sed whose bond it wur as he’d been 
holdin’.” 

Abel, after delivering this speech in a mumbling, shamefaced 
manner, ended abruptly, and looked at the door, as if he felt that his 
unpleasant mission was over. The vicar listened with interest, and 
noddeil as.sent to the latter portion of the tramp’s words. Ned 
Mitchell continued to gaze at Meredith like a bear baulked of his 

Dr0 V* 

I don’t believe you’ve even felt much remorse all these years,” 
he .said, savagely. 

The vicar faced him frankly. 

“To tell the truth, I haven’t,” he said. “That’s not in my tem- 
perament. I supfMjse this sounds especially remarkable because I 
am a clergvman. But my profession was forced upon me ; I had to 
put an umiatiiral curb upon myself, and succeeded in attaining a 
pitch of outward decorum such as none of my family had ever reach- 


206 


ST. odthbert’s towhb. 


ed before. But the strain was too great, for I am not by temTOra- 
ment virtuous ; none of my family are. Vernon has an accident, 
and not his nature, to thank for his superiority. That is all I have 
to say.” 

The vicar leaned back in his chair, as if weary of the discussion. 

“ Then you don’t seem to have any conscience,” said Ned, regard- 
ing him in bewilderment. 

“Not much, I suppose,” answered the vicar; “though indeed 
lately I have had troubled nights, and shown the family tendency 
towards somnambulism ; so my wife tells me. And in rather an 
unfortunate way,” he added, with a half smile. 

As the vicar finished speaking, Ned came forward with his pon- 
derous tread, laid his hand heavily on the writing-table, and looked 
down at the clergyman’s bland face with the air of a strong man who 
has definitely made up his mind. 

“ Now then, parson. I’ll tell you Avhat you’ll have to do. You take 
that pen that you’ve just been writing your precious sermons with, 
and you write a detailed confession of your intrigue with my sister, 
your visits to her at night, your correspondence with her, the way 
in which you murdered her, and the way in which you disposed of 
her body. Then sign your name and put the date in full, and me 
and Abel here will oblige you by putting our signatures as wit- 
nesses.” 

“And if I do this, what follows?” asked the vicar, taking up the 
pen and examining the nib. 

““Then you get my permission to leave this country for any other 
you choose with your wife and children. And as long as you keep 
away, this paper will never go out of my possession.” 

“ And if 1 don’t do this ?” 

“ What’s the good of going into that?” 

The eyes of the two men met, and they understood each other. 
Without wasting more words, Meredith turned to the table, invited 
Ned with a gesture to sit down, and proceeded to draw up the pre- 
scribed confession. This he did fully and frankly, adding at the end 
certain graceful expressions of contrition which Ned, reading the 
document over carefully, took for what they were worth. The main 
body of the composition satisfied him, however ; and after appending 
his own signature to the confession as a witness, and insisting on 
Abel’s adding his, he sealed up the paper with great solemnity. 
Then, intimating to Meredith Brander that the sooner he carried oiit 
the remaining part of the compact and left the country, the better it 
would be for him, he left the room with the curtest of farewells, and 
hastened out of the house to avoid what he called “another scene 
with the woman.” 

Once outside he looked back at the vicarage with great interest. 

“ If one had to be a rascal,” said he, with some irrepressible ad- 
miration, “ that’s the sort of rascal one would choose to be.” 

Then Abel Quires left him and hobbled off, and Ned was left to 
his pipe and his reflections, both which he chose to enjoy, not at his 
garden gate as usual, but at the bottom of the hill, outside liishton 
Hall farmyard. 

Before lie had been there more than a few minutes, the event he 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


207 


was prepared for took place. Olivia Denison, pale, excited, tearful, 
yet radiant, came to the g'ate, looking out anxiously. Seeing Ned, 
she ran out to him with a cry. 

“Oh, Mr. Mitchell,” she said, almost in a whisper, “I must ask 
you to forgive me. I had such unjust thoughts of you. I thought, 
until the night before last, that you meant to ruin Vernon, in spite 
of your promise.” 

“ Um,” said Ned ; “you hadn’t much faith in your lover, now, 
had you, to think him capable of ” 

“Hush! never mind that. You see, I-must have felt at the bot- 
tom of my heart that he was really good. For I loved him all the 
time just the same.” 

“ That doesn’t follow at all. Women always go by contraries. 
The more of a villain a man is, the more a woman likes him. Look 
at the vicar here, and the way his wife sticks to him. And look at 
me, as honest a fellow as ever lived, and what do you think mv wife 
cares for me or mv affections? Not a single straw, I tell yoii.’’^ 

“Well,” said Ofivia, smiling, “considering the smairamount of 
affection you seem to waste on her, I think it’s just as well for her 
happiness that she is not dying for love of you.” 

“ Ah, you're full of these new fangled notions about the equality 
of the sexes. Now, I say, men and women are different. The man 
does all the hard work, and even if he goes a little bit off the straight 
sometimes, it’s no more than he has a right to, provided he fills the 
mouths at home. The woman has nothing to do but look after the 
home and children, and mend their clothes and her husband’s. And 
if she can’t find time besides to be devoted to her husband, and to 
think him the finest fellow on earth in return for what he does for 
her, why, she ain’t worth her salt ; that’s all. Now that’s my mar- 
riage code. Miss Denison, though I can see by your face it isn’t 
yours.” 

“ I really haven’t considered the subject much,” replied Olivia, 
demurely," but with a bright blush. 

“You might do worse, though, than consider it, now that things 
have shaped themselves a bit,” said Ned, in a dry tone. “ Our dear 
friend the vicar here is going to leave this country, in consideration 
of a certain little matter being hushed up—” 

“ Oh, I’m so glad?” interrupted Olivia, with a deep-drawn breath 
of relief ; “ that is good of you, Mr. Mitchell. For it would have 
been— dreadful— dreadful !” 

Ned was looking away over the corn-fields, where his sharp eyes 
detected a figure he recognized, wandering about in an aimless man- 
ner. 

“ I think you’d better take a walk out into the meadows there,” he 
said, after a minute’s pause, turning again to the young lady, with 
a kindly look on his hard face. “It will do you good after all the ex- 
citement and botherment of this morning.” 

Olivia blushed again. . , , .r , 

“Thank you,” she said, with a proud turn of her head. “I don’t 
care to go out again this afternoon. The air is much too oppres- 
sive ” 

“Oh, all right,” said Ned with a dry nod; “then I musn’t keep 


208 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


you out here talking- in the ‘ oppressive’ air, I suppose. Good-day, 
Miss Denison.” 

“ Good-bye,” she said, grently, holding- out her hand, , which he 
shook with a firm pressure. 

Then he walked up the hill, talking* to himself. 

“These old-country lasses are fine creatures,” he meditated. 
“ There’s Mrs. B., Avh'om I didn’t care for, and Miss D. whom I dfd, 
and I’m blest if they haven’t both g-ot too g-ood a spirit to be married 
at all. Yet one wouldn’t care to see them old maids, either — nor yet 
men — nor yet angels. These high-spirited ladies, who can think and 
act for themselves, don’t seem to fit in Somehow. One would feel 
they were kind of too good for one. Give me a nice, comfortable 
lass, whom you needn’t study any more than a potato. You know 
what to be at with one of them. By-the-bye, now I suppose I must 
take ship and see how my own potato is getting on.” 

Nevertheless, from the top of the hill he looked down rather senti- 
mentally in the direction of the old farm. As he did so, he caught 
sight of a girl’s tall figure in the meadows. He laughed malic- 
iously. 

“She’s gone to meet him. I thought she would. I’d have let off 
half a dozen scoundrels to give that lass her heart’s desire : that I 
would !” 

And he watched her till a rising in the meadow ground, and a 
thick, flowering hedge, hid her from si^^ht. 

After a few minutes’ arguing with herself, Olivia, who guessed 
the reason of Ned Mitchell’s suggestion of a walk in the fields, de- 
cided that she ought without delay to let Vernon Brander know the 
result of the interview between his brother and the colonist. So she 
darted through the gate and across the road with the ag*ility of a 
deer, in spite of the opjpressive air. So excited was she,' so full of 
joy at the turn affairs had taken, that she almost ran along the foot- 
path, beside the sweet-scented hedges, with an occasional little leap 
or bound of most undignified happiness. Thus it happened that 
when she came unexpectedly face to face with Vernon Brander on 
rounding’ a thicket of bushes and small trees, slie Avas springing into 
the air Avith her face radiant with delight, and a soft song— some- 
thing about “ birds ” and“loA-e” — upon her lips. Vernon, on his 
side, looked, if anything, even more haggard and Avoebegone than 
usual. Both stopped short, and 01 i Ada, avIio had become on the in- 
stant very subdued, dreAv a deep breath of confusion. 

“Mr. Brander,” she be«’an, in a cool, almost cold, voice, “I — I — 
er, I have just met Ned Mitchell, and 1 think you ought to know 
what he says.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, yes : tell me!” 

“He is going to hush it all up, on condition that your brother 
leaves the country altogether.” 

Vernon drew a deep breath of relief, and almost reeled against the 
fence which protected the thicket on one side. 

“Thank God!” he whispered. 

And he put one hand to his face as if to shut out the fearful picture 
his imagination and his fears had been conjuring up. Olivia waited 
impatiently as long as she could. At last when sue could bear this 
neglect no longer, she said, rather tartly— 


ST. cuthbert’s towbb. 


209 


“ Mrs. Brander will have to g’o too.” 

“ Of course, of course ; she will go with her husband.” 

Vernon was still in a dazed state, not yet understanding* what a 
great change iu his prospects of happiness the day’s events had 
made. 

“I think it was very silly of you to keep silence all these years just 
to please her. It was she who made you, I suppose— came to you. 
and wheedled you. Men are so easily coaxed,” continued Olivia, ~ 
disdainfully, with her head in the air. 

She had never been curt and dictatorial, like this, with him before. 
Poor Vernon, ouite unskilled in the wiles of her sex, was abashed 
and bewildered. 

“Yes,” he admitted, humbly. “ She came to me and begged me 
not to say anything if people suspected me. And, you see, 1 had 
been so fond of her, and she was in delicate health, and I had no 
wife or children to be hurt by what people might think of me. And 
so I promised.” 

“And she made you promise not to marry, didn’t she?” 

“ Well, yes. Poor thing, she had to do the best she could for her 
husband and children ; and, of course, she thought if I married, I 
should let out the secret to my wife, and my wife would insist on 
having things explained.” 

“I should think so,” said Olivia. 

“ And now,” said Vernon, who was getting more and more down- 
cast under the influence of this surprising change in her, “I’m too 
old and too sour to marry, and I think i shall go away with them, 
and have my little Kitty to console me.” 

“Yes,” said Olivia, quietly, her voice losing suddenlv all its buoy- 
ancy as well as all its momentary sharpness ; “ I think that will be 
a very good plan. You will let us know when you intend to start, 
won’t you, for my father and mother owe you an apology first? Now, 
I must be getting back. Good -evening.” 

Dull Vernon began at last to have a glimmer of insight into the 
girl’s secret feelings. He shook hands with her, let her walk as far 
the very end of the field, noticing with admiration which had sud- 
denly, after the strain of the morning, again grown passionate, her 
springing walk and graceful, erect carriage. Then he ran after her 
on the wings of the wind, and placed himself, panting, with his back 
to the gate she was approaching. 

“ I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, as he looked with sparkling 
eyes into her face. “But you seem to forget I’ve lent you thirty- 
pounds. I shall want it back to pay my passage.” 

Olivia caught her breath, and ner face, which was wet with tears, 
grew happy again. 

“ I’d forgotten all about it,” said she, in a tremulous voice, half 
saucily, half demurely. “ But anyhow, you can’t have it.” 

“And why not. Miss Denison?” asked Vernon, coming a step 
nearer. 

“ Because I— I don’t want you to go away,” answered she. 

• And she fell into his arms without further invitation, and gave 
him a tender woman’s kiss, an earnest of the love and sympathy he 
had hungered for these ten years 1 


210 


ST. cuthbert’s tower. 


The tme story of the murder at St. Cuthbert’s never became com- 
monlv known. At the inquest which was opened on the remains 
found in tlie crypt, nobody who had anything* to tell told anything 
worth hearing. But, then, nobody was very anxious to discover 
the truth, for rumors too dreadful for investigation began to fly 
about ; and nobody was astonished when, the health of his children 
requiring a chaim'e to a warmer climate, the Reverend Meredith 
Brander got, by tne interest of his uncle. Lord Stannington, an ap- 
pointment at Malta, for which place he started, with his wife and 
family, without delay, 

The vacant living' of Rishton was given by Lord Stannington to 
his other nephew, Vernon ; and Olivia, though lamentably unlike 
the popular ideal of a clergyman’s wife, became as much idolized by 
the poor of the parish as her husband was already. 

John Oldshaw got Rishton Hall Farm ; for Mr. Denison’s friends 
persuaded him to give up farming while he had still something left 
to lose. But the farmer did not long survive his coveted happiness. 
Dyin^ in a fit of apoplexy, he left his broad acres in the care of his 
son Mat, who, instead of setting up as a country gentleman, as his 
sisters declared he would do if he had any spirit, married little Lucy, 
made her a good husband, and remained for ever, in common with 
his wife, the idolatrous slave of her late mistress. 

“Theer bean’t more’n one woman in t’ world,” he would say, “too 
good for Parson Brander. Boot theer be one, and thot’s his wife.” 

But though “ Parson Brander” himself agreed with this, he was 
mistaken ; for, like every other good woman, she was the better, and 
the little world around her was the better, for the fact that she was 
the noble and true mate of a noble and true man. 


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C Hi O Gh XT E 

OF 

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By Antlior of “ Addie’s Hus- 


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99 Mona’s Choice 25 

108 A Life Interest 25 

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132 The Devil’s Die 25 

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64 A Tramp Actor 25 

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71 The Groat Hesper 25 

140 My Misadventure 25 

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63 Speeches delivered in England in 
1863 50 

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74 Sabina Zemlira 25 

150 Strange Adventures of a House Boat.25 

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9 Bill Nye and Boomerang 25 

44 Baled Hay 25 

49 Forty Liars 25 

100 Bill Nye’s Chestnuts 50 

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62 Springhaven 25 

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27 Lady Audley’s Secret 25 

107 The Octoroon 25 

149 The Fatal Three 25 

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6 Jane Eyre 25 

By Robert Bnckanan. 

117 Stormy Waters 25 

141 The Heir of Linne 25 

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118 The Deemster 25 


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52 Wee Wifie 25 

101 Not Like Other Girls 25 

106 Only the Governess 25 

By Wilkie Collins. 

2 The Moonstone 25 

24 The Guilty River and The New Mag- 
dalen 25 

43 Heart and Science 25 

53 The Dead Secret 25 

143 Legacy of Cain 25 

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18 Set in Diamonds 26 

19 Her Mother's Sin 25 

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29 Thorns and Orange Blossoms .... 25 

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51 Shadow of a Sin, and Wedded ard 

109 A True Magdaien .26 

By Blancbc Conscience . 

90 Confessions of a Society Man .... .26 


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46 Called Back and Dark D&ys. . . ... .26 

By B. M. C:./-ker. 


147 Diana Barrington..., 25 

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60 David Copperfield 60 

68 Oliver Twist 25 

By Benjamin Disraeli. 

(The Earl of Beaconsfield. ) 

47 Endymion 25 

By Rickard Bowling. 

137 Miracle Gold. , . . .25 

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98 A House of Tears 25 

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123 A Mystery StilL 25 


4 


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15 Phyllis 25 

16 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds and The 

Haunted Chamber 25 

21 Airy Fairy Lilian 25 

85 Molly Bawn 25 

39 Mrs. Geoifrey 25 

81 A Modern Circe 25 

8^1 The Duchess 25 

1(J4 Marvel 25 

151 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker 25 

By Alex. Dumas. 

54 Count of Monte Cristo 50 

By George Bliot. 

8 Adam Bede 25 

67 Middlemarch 50 

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75 The Bag of Diamonds 25 

102 Story of Antony Grace 25 

160 Black Blood 25 

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36 Fair Women 25 

By K. E. Prancillon. 

119 King or Knave 25 


By Walter Hnbhell. 

164 The Great Amherst Mystery 2? 

By Fergus W. Hume. 

126 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab 26 

By Mrs. Edward Eennard. 

129 A Real Good Thing 25 

136 A Glorious Gallop 25 

155 Straight as a Die 25 

158 Killed in the Open 25 

161 The Girl in the Brown Habit 26 

By James Kent. 

133 The Johnson Manor 25 

134 Sybil Spencer 26 

By Kev. Chas. King<sley. 

40 Hypatia 25 

By Charles Lever. 

46 Harry Lor requer .... 26 

By Mrs. H. Eovett-Camercn. 

148 A Dead Past 26 

By Katherine S. Macquoid. 

145 Mrs. Rumbold’s Secret 2J 


By Emile Gaboriau. 

14 File No. 113 25 

20 Other People’s Money 25 

22 In Peril of His Life 25 

61 Monsieur Lecoq 50 

By Charles Gibbon. 

144 Beyond Compare 25 

By S. Baring Gould. 

77 Red Spider 25 

By Major Arthur Griffiths. 

127 The Wrong Road 26 

By H. Rider Haggard. 

12 She 25 

31 King Solomon’s Mines 25 

32 The Witch’s Head 25 

34 Jess 25 

50 Dawn 25 

70 Allan Quatermain 25 

94 A Tale of Three Lions 25 

146 Mr. Meeson’s Will 25 

Maiwa’s Revenge 26 


By Lady Margaret Majendfe. 


78 On the Scent 26 

By E. Marlitt. 

23 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret 25 

By Florence Marvya.4. 

33 The Master Passion 25 

116 With Cupid’s Eyes 25 

122 A Harvest of Wild QsXi .26 

By T. L. 

79 Beforehand 26 

By Franl /dtrryfield. 

138 Molly’s Story 26 

By J. Fitx^/crald Moll^y, 

103 A Modern M^Sl^!ian 25 

By Miss Mulock, 

26 John Halifax ^ ..25 


By Mary Cecil Hay. 

1 A Wicked Girl 25 

88 Old Myddleton’s Money. 26 


By David Christie Muxiay. 


105 One Traveller Returns 26 

128 Old Blazer’s Hero .26 


V 


5 


By W* B. Norrlg* 

130 Chris ,...S5 

By F. E. Notley. 

95 From the Other Side 25 

By Ouida. 

8 Moths 25 

17 A House Party and a Rainy June.. 25 

69 Under Two Flags 50 

118 Othmar 25 

120 Fuscarel 25 

By George W. Peck. 

6 Peck’s Bad Boy... 25 

7 Peck’s Sunshine 25 

28 Peck’s Fun ~5 

By W. Clark Bussell. 

67 The Golden Hope 25 

92 The Froien Pirate 25 

By Geo. W. Peck, Jr. 

84. Peck ’s Irish Friend 25 

By Eli Perkins. 

42 Wit, Humor and Pathos 25 

By E. C. Pkilips. 

72 As in a Looking Glass 25 

80 The Dean and his Daughter 25 

80 Strange Adventures of Lucy Smith. 25 

93 Jack and Three Jills 25 

By Bonn Piatt. 

88 Memories of Men who Saved the 
Union 25 

By Jane Porter. 

63 Scottish Chiefs 60 

By M. Quad. 

11 Lime Kiln Club 26 

By M. E. Bayne. 

65 Her Desperate Victory 25 

By Charles Rcade. 

Ill A Terrible Temptation 26 

By Mrs. Biddell. 

139 Idle Tales 25 

By “ Rita.” 

124 Darby and Joan 25 


By Adeline Sargeant. 


121 Roy’s Repentance • 25 

By Hawley Smart. 

96 Saddle and Sabre 25 

97 Bad to Beat 25 

110 A False Start 25 

112 Breezie Langton 25 

By Shirley Smith. 

69 Lovell’s Whim 25 

By Robert Louis Stevenson. 

4 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 

Hyde 25 

37 The Merry Men 25 

97 Treasure Island -.25 

By Julian Sturgis. 

89 Dick’s W’auderiug 25 

By Eugene Sue. 

55 The Wandering Jew 60 

66 Mysteries of Paris 60 

By Count L^on Tolstoi. 

115 My Husband and 1 25 

By Jules Ternc. 

65 Tour of the World in 80 Daj's 25 

60 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea 25 

By Florence "Warden. 

82 Schehei’azada 25 

142 A Woman’s Face 25 

By T. E. Willson. 

76 £10,000 25 

By John Strange "Winter. 

131 Beautiful Jim 25 

By Mrs. Henry Wood. 

30 Bast Lynne 25 

91 Lady Grace 26 

By H. r. Wood. 

114 The Passenger from Scotland 
Yard 25 

By Kate Tannatt Woods. 

125 The Minister’s Secret 25 

.135 Hidden for Years 25 

Miscellaneous. 

10 What will the World Say ? 25 

41 What Would You Do Love 25 


6 


NUIVSERSCAL LIST OF 

LovelTs Household Library. 

This admirable series of Popular Books is printed on heavier and larger paper than 
other cheap series, and is substantially bound in a handsome lithogi'aphed (olue and 
gold) cover. 


The following are the earlier issues, 
as rapidly as they appear. 

1 A Wicked Girl. By M. Cecil Hay.. .25 

2 The Moonstone. By Coliins 25 

8 Moths. By Ouida 25 

4 Strange Case ol Dr. JckyJl. By R. 

L. Stevenson 25 

5 Peck’s Bad Boy and his Pa. By- Geo. ‘ 

W. Peck 25 

6 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte .... 25 

7 Peck’s Sunshine. By Geo. W. Peck.25 

8 Adam Bede. By George Eliot 25 

9 Bill Nyc and Boomerang. By him- 

self 25 

10 What Will the World Say? 25 

11 Lime Kiln Club. hyM. Quad 25 

She. By H. Itider Laggard. 25 

18 Dora Thorne. By Bt rtha M. Clay . .25 

14 File No. 118. By E. Gaboriau 25 

15 Phyllis. By The Duchess 25 

10 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds and The 

Haunted Chamber. The Duehess.25 

17 A House Party and A llainy June. 

By Ouida 25 

18 Set in Di iinonds, B. Jil. Clay 25 

19 Her Mother’s Sin, B. M. Clay 25 

2i» Other People's Money. Gaboriau. , .25 

21 Airy Fairy Lilian. The Duchess ... .25 

22 In Peril of His L:fe. By Guboriun..25 

20 The Old MunTseile’s Secret. By E. 

Miirhtt 25 

24 The Guilty River and The New Mag- 

dalen. By Wilk.e Collins 25 

25 John Halifax. By Miss Mulock. . . . 25 

20 Marjorie. By B. M. Clav 25 

27 Ladv A udlev’s Secret. Braddon. . . .25 

28 Peek’s Fun.*' By G. W. Peek 25 

29 Thorns ami Orange Blossoms. By 

Bertha M. Clay 25 

30 East Lynne. By Mrs. Wood 25 

31 King Solomon's Mines. By H. R. 

Hagcrard 25 

32 The Witch's Head. By Haggard.. ..25 

33 The Master Passion. By Mnrryiit. . .25 

34 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard 25 

85 Molly Buwn. By J’he Ducliess 25 

3b Fair Women. By Mrs. Forrester. ...25 

37 The Merry Men. By Stevenson 25 

38 Old Myddlet oil’s Money. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 25 

39 Mrs. Geoffrey. By The Duchess — 25 

40 Hypat.a. By Rev. Chns. Kingsley . .25 

41 What Would You Do, Love ? 25 

42 Eli X^erkius, Wit, Humor & Pathos.. 25 


The best works’ of new fiction will be added 


43 Heart and Science. By Collins 25 

44 Baled Hay. By Bill Nye 25 

45 Harry Lorrequer. By Lever 25 

4(3 Called Back and Dark Days. By 

Hugh Conway 25 

47 Endymion. By Benj. Disraeli 25 

48 Clanbel’s Love Story. I y B.M. Clay. 25 

49 Forty Liars, By Bill Nye 25 

50 Dawn. By H. Rider Haggard.. .. 25 

51 Shadow of a Sin and Wedded and 

Parted. By Bertha M Clay 25 

52 Wee Wifie. By Rosa N. Carey .. ..25 

53 The Dead Secret. By C<'liins 25 

54 Count of Monte Cristo. By Alexan- 

dre Diunas. Complete in 1 \ol....50 

55 The Wandering Jew'. By Eugene 

Sue. Complete in 1 vol 50 

56 The Mysteries of Paris. By Eugene 

Sue. Compute in 1 volume.... .50 

57 Middleinarch. By George Eliot... 60 

58 Scottish Chiefs. By Jane Poiter 50 

59 Under Two Flags. By Ouida .50 

60 David Copperfield, By Dickens... .60 

61 Monsieur Leeoq. By E. Gaboriau. 60 

62 Springhiiveii. By R. D. Blackniore. 25 
61 Speeches of Henry Ward Biecher* 

delivered in England in K63 50 

64 A Tramp Actor 25 

65 Tour of the World in 80 Days. By 

Jules Veine 25 

66 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. By 

Jules Verne 23 

G7 The Golden Hope. By W. Clarke 
Russell 23 

68 Oliver Twist. By Charles Di< kens. .25 

69 Lovell's Whim, By Shirley Smith.. 25 

70 Allan Quaterinain. H. H. Htiggaid.:t6 
'll The Great Hesper. By F. Barrett.. 25 

72 As in a Looking Glass, F.C. J’hilipN25 

73 This Man's Wife, G. Manviile Fenn.25 

74 Sabiiia Zenibra. By Wm. Black... 26 

75 The Bag of Diamonds, G. M. Fenii.26 
7() i;l0,000. By T. E. Willson.. ..26 

77 Red Spider. By S. Baring Gould... 25 

78 On the Scent. By Lady Margaret 

Majendie 25 

79 Beforehand. By T. L. Meade 25 

80 The Dean and his Daughter. By the 

author of ‘‘ As in a Looking GIass.’'25 

81 A Modern Circe. By The Duchess. .25 

82 Scheherazade, By Florence Warden.. 26 

83 The Duchess* By The Duchess **,26 


7 


84 Peck's Irish Friend, Phelan Oeoge- 

han. By Geo. W. Peck 25 

85 Her Desperate Victory. By M. L. 

Rayne 25 

86 Strange Adventures of Lucy Smith. 

ByF. 0. Philips 25 

87 Je-sie. By author of Addie's Hus- 

band ” 25 

88 M mories of Men who Saved the 

Union. By Donn Piatt 25 

89 Dick's Wandering. By Julian Sturgis. 25 

90 Confessions of a Society Man 25 

91 Lady Grace, By Mrs. Henry Wood, 

author of East Lynne ” .25 

92 The Frozen Pirate. By W. Clark 

Russell 25 

93 Jack and Three Jills. By F. C. 

Philips 25 

94 A Tale of Three Lions. By H, R. 

Haggard 25 

95 From the Other Side. By F. E. 

Notley, author of Olive Varcoe."25 

96 Saddle and Sabre. By Hawley 

8m Tt 25 

97 Treasure Island. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 25 

98 A House of Tears, By E. Downey. .25 

99 Mona a Choice. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander ... 25 

100 Bill Nye's Chestnut. By Bill Nye. .50 

101 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 25 

102 Story of Antony Grace. By G. Man- 

viile Fenn 25 

103 A Modern Magician. By J. F. 

Malloy 25 

104 Marvel. By The Duchess 25 

105 One Traveller Returns, By David 

Christie Murray 25 

106 Only the Governess. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 25 

107 The Octoroon. By Mrs. M. E. Brnd- 

don 25 

103 A Life Interest. By Mrs. Alexander.25 

109 A True Magdalpn, By Bertha M. 

Clay 25 

110 A False Start. By Hawley Smart. .25 

111 A Terrible Temptation, By Charles 

Reade 25 

112 Breezie Langton. By Hawley 

Smart 25 

113 The Deemster. By Hall Caine 25 

114 The Passenger from Scotland Yard, 

By H. F. Wood 25 

115 My Husband and I. By Count Leon 

Tolstoi 25 

116 With Cupid’s Eyes. By Florence 

Marry at 25 

117 Stormy Waters. By Robert Buchan- 

an ... .26 

118 Othmar. By Ouida 25 

119 King or Knave. By R. S. Fran- 

cillon 25 

120 Pascarel. By Ouida 25 

121 Roy's Repentance. By Adeline Sar- 

gent 25 

122 A Harvest of Wild Oats. By Flor- 

ence Marryat«^*,>«.««,*tt« *25 


333 


123 A Mystery Still. By Fortune Du 

Boisgobey 25 

124 Darby and Joan. By “Rita” 25 

125 The Minister's Secret. By Kate 

Tannatt Woods 25 

126 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. By 

Fertjus W. Hume 25 

127 The Wrong Road. By Major Arthur 

Griffiths 25 

128 Old Blazer's Hero. By David 

Christie Murray 25 

129 A Real Good Thing. By Mrs, Ed- 

ward Kennard 25 

130 Chris. By W. E. Norris 25 

131 Beautiful Jim. By John Strange 

Winter 25 

132 The Devil's Die. By Crant Allen. .25 

133 The Johnson Manor. By James 

Kent ..,/.26 

134 Sybil Spencer. By James Kent, ..25 

135 Hidden for Years. By Mrs. Kate 

Tannatt Woods 25 

136 A Glorious Gallop, By Mrs. Ken- 

nai'd 25 

137 Miracle Gold. By Richard Dow- 

ling 25 

138 Molly's Story, By Frank Merry- 

field 25 ■ 

139 Idle Talcs. By Mrs. Riddell 26 

140 My Misadventure. By Frank Bar- 

rett 25 

141 The Heir of Linne. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 26 

142 A Woman's Face. By Florence 

Wai’den 25 

143 The Legacy of Cain. By Wilkie 

Collins 25 

144 Beyond Compare. By Chas. Gib- 

bon 25 

145 Mrs. Rumbold’s Seerfet. By Kath- 

erine S. Macquoid 25 

146 Mr. Mecson’s Will. By H, Rider 

Haggard 25 

147 Diana Barrington. By Mrs. John 

Croker 25 

148 A Dead Past. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Camrron 25 

149 The Fatal Three. By Miss M, E, 

Braddon 25 

150 Strange Adventures of a House 

Boat. By Wm. Black 26 

151 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker. By 

The Duchess 25 

152 Dr, Glennie's Daughter. . ..25 

153 Maiwa's Revenge. By H. Rider 

Haggard 25 

154 The Great Amhex’st Mystery. By 

Walter Hubhell 25 

155 Straight as a Die, By Mrs. Ed- 

ward Kennard 25 

156 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. . .26 

157 A Woman’s Atonement. By Adah 

M. Howard 25 

158 Killed in the Open. By Mrs. Ed- 

ward Kennard 25 

160 Black Blood. By G. Manville Fenn.^ 

161 The Girl in the Brown Habit. By 

Mrs. Edward Kennard ^ 

92 




















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INDIANA 46962 






